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MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS 


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1891 






Copyright, 1891, by Harper & Brothers. 


All rights reserved. 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


CHAPTER I. 

Lady Julia was only judging from precedent when she 
supposed that the next face Miss Maxwell saw would 
cure her of her unfortunate attachment to France Wood- 
ford. 

She was scarcely to blame if she thought that her 
niece took her conquests lightly. Miss Maxwell had 
been attracted by each in turn of the four men who had 
proposed for her hand during the two years that she 
had been under Lady Julia’s wing at Eastwood. In the 
first instance she had dallied, uncertain as a bird or a 
butterfly; but in the end her refusal had been given 
with decision and equanimity. 

Of the lovers of Gertrude, one has since married and 
was consoled. He has little bearing upon the story, and 
he can remain without a name. Another was George 
Brabant, a neighboring young squire ; the third a cer- 
tain Johnny Harwood, an unencumbered little bachelor, 
who was desirable in every way. 

Before any of these, Gertrude had fancied herself in 
love with one Bobin Wakefield; and it was upon this 
instance that Lady Julia based her convictions with re- 


4 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


gard to the nature and strength of Miss Maxwell’s af- 
fections. The Wakefield episode had begun in the 
London days when Gertrude was living with an uncle. 
The end of it, at least, had come under Lady Julia’s 
direct observation, and she drew her conclusions. There 
was nothing against young Robin, be it understood, but 
the fact that he had not a penny to call his own. He 
told Gertrude, of course, that he would never care for 
any one else ; and she said that it was not so serious as 
all that. At the same time it was quite sufiiciently 
serious, and only the admirable worldly wisdom of her 
aunt prevented her from binding herself to him by and 
for what Lady Julia called “ one of those hopeless en- 
gagements that drag their weary length through years, 
and leave you in the end with crow’s-feet at the eyes 
and all your prospects gone.” 

Lady Julia further said : 

‘‘You are the prettiest girl in the county. You will 
find that you can have half the men at your feet for the 
nod of your head. Don’t make a bad match at twenty- 
three, whatever you may do later.” 

So poor Robin Wakefield was sent about his business, 
and he went to India to grow tea and perhaps marry a 
begum. 

It was after that that Lady Julia commenced her 
county campaign. Gertrude thought just then that she 
was unhappy for her penniless lover, and she was unre- 
sponsive. 

“For goodness’ sake!” said her aunt, sharply — “for 
goodness’ sake, try and cheer up. You know as well as 
I do that you don’t feel very deeply. It isn’t in you, 
and you are not half as miserable as you pretend.” 


MSS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


5 


I am,” said Gertrude, “twice as miserable.” 

Then Lady Julia took another course. Let us give 
her credit for a certain insight into character. She 
looked at her niece for some moments in a contempla- 
tive sort of way. 

“ No,” she said, after a pause of long scrutiny ; “ no, 
I am sure of it. I am sure I am right. If it suited you 
I shouldn’t mind ; but I do not think — I say I do not 
think — depression becomes your type of face.” 

Lady Julia began this little speech very slowly, and 
with the air of a critic who weighs each word. She 
ended it with a run. Miss Maxwell listened in silence. 
She would not give her aunt the satisfaction of letting 
her see her smile ; but she went up to her room, and sat 
down before the glass. 

She looked at her face, at her eyes that were brown 
with a russet tinge like the color of an autumn leaf, at 
her mouth with the precise red lips and the white teeth. 
It was a pity not to laugh sometimes, wasn’t it ? Her 
head, with the hair that was soft and dry and curly, was 
very daintily set upon the slender throat. Why carry 
it so listlessly ? 

She rose, satisfied that her aunt was right. 

Lady Julia smiled to herself, and, like the man on the 
stile, she continued to smile. But she should have known 
that one must not argue from the teaching of a single 
case, nor even sometimes from that of two or three. 
The inference to be drawn from the instances of Wake- 
field, of the unnamed man who married and was con- 
soled, of Harw^ood, of Brabant, and of yet another of 
wliom we shall hear presently, was as misleading as it 
could be, and perhaps Lady Julia was justified in smil- 


6 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


ing. Tlie meeting with France Woodford was in this 
wise : 

He was staying at the manor, and his aunt gave a 
dinner-party to which Lady Julia and Miss Maxwell 
were invited. It was, perhaps, because he was different 
from the men whom Gertrude was in the habit of meet- 
ing in the county that he interested her at once. His 
voice attracted her before she saw him at all. He was 
talking to some one in the inner room when, with Lady 
Julia, she went into the drawing-room. The sound of a 
voice unknown to her and with an unusually sweet tone 
arrested her attention, and she looked round to see the 
speaker. 

He came in presently with young Harwood, and at 
dinner he sat opposite to her ; and several times Miss 
Maxwell found herself looking in his direction. It was 
possibly a proof of her interest in him that she re- 
marked that, beyond the casual glances inevitable to 
his position as her vis-a-vis^ he only looked steadily at 
her twice. On each of these two occasions she felt his 
eyes upon her, and, with the knowledge of her own 
beauty. Miss Maxwell had a vague sense of surprise that 
having looked he should not have looked more often. It 
was as the party sat down and began or continued con- 
versation that she knew that in his survey of the table 
Woodford paused for some moments at herself; and 
again, when Mr. Woodford caught Lady Julia’s eye, 
Gertrude was conscious that he looked at her as she 
passed him with her nose in the air in that attitude that 
had gained for her in the county her reputation for 
pride. She knew that his eyes followed her from the 
room. 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


7 


The drawing-room was full of the scent of flowers. 
The window was open, and Mrs. Woodford closed it 
in a somewhat fussy way that was habitual to her be- 
fore sitting down beside Lady Julia. 

She began to speak of her nephew, and Miss Maxwell 
did her best to listen. A girl had fastened herself onto 
her ; and Gertrude, in her effort to hear what was said, 
made her answers somewhat at random. 

“ Ranching,” she heard. “ Home for a few mouths. 
. . . Hasn’t made it pay. . . . Big losses which he couldn’t 
very well afford.” 

Miss Maxwell saw that her aunt’s interest in the 
young man dwindled at once. Her own did not. She 
had vague ideas about ranching, gathered ii^ the most 
part from songs and magazine articles. The background 
of a life in the West was full of suggestion : days in the 
saddle; loneliness and vast expanses; friendships be- 
tween man and man ; a sun setting beyond the line of 
the prairie grass ; the lowing of cattle ; the shouting of 
the boys. 

She strung these things together in a sentence with- 
out a verb, and was nearly satisfied that she knew ex- 
actly what everything was like. There were boys, 
weren’t there? You called them cowboys, and they 
had long whips, and they shouted “ Cooee !” (or was that 
in Australia ?). Anyway, it was very interesting. 

Miss Maxwell was not even pretending to pay any 
attention now to the girl who continued to talk to her. 

The men came in presently, and France Woodford 
was introduced to her. He had easy manners, and the 
frankest eyes she had ever seen. He kept them upon 
her as he spoke to her, and she knew why he had looked 


8 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


at her so little at dinner. Miss Maxwell, as an acknowl- 
edged beauty, was accustomed to attract a certain notice. 

France Woodford was rather above the middle height, 
and he was strongly and very neatly built. His broad 
shoulders, and the muscle that stood out in the calf of 
the leg that was crossed over the other, spoke to the 
healthiness of his life. This was also confirmed by his 
ruddy skin and his sound, white teeth. He had a well- 
proportioned head, with dark -brown hair, which was 
cleanly parted and brushed off a square forehead. His 
eyes were gray, and the eyebrows very level. His nose 
was straight, and the small brown mustache did not 
hide the sensitive lips. 

In every detail France Woodford was well finished. 
There was not a bit of slovenly work in his composi- 
tion ; his ears were small, and placed with a due regard 
to that exactness of measurement that gave to his feat- 
ures their balance ; his hands were shapely, if brown 
from work and a Western sun; and his feet and ankles 
were slender — he had no ugly side. 

Miss Maxwell and he talked of nothing in particular, 
but this did not seem to Miss Maxwell to matter, so long 
as he was content to sit opposite to her and to let her 
look at him. She found that she was a year older than 
he, and, as they were both under twenty-six, this gave 
her a certain advantage. After they had arrived at the 
question of ages, they drifted into more intimate ac- 
quaintance. He told her something of his life. There 
were joys in its freedom, and a loneliness and a sense of 
exile that she could well realize ; and there were hard- 
ships, too, that she could vaguely guess. Then they 
neared a stage at which the emotions come into play. 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


9 


He told her of a friend who had died on the ranch, 
away from his own people, and Miss Maxwell felt that 
she could imagine a case in which she could have envied 
the friend who lay in his Western grave, because he had 
died holding Woodford’s hand, and because his death 
could bring that look of sullen sorrow into his face. 

‘‘ And we buried him, poor old Bruff — Broughton his 
name was, Broughton Essex, and Bruff evolved itself for 
short. I saw his mother to-day. I had a letter for her 
from him. My God, how that woman cared for him ! 
I stayed with her for an hour, giving his messages and 
telling her of all he said. It seems so odd that he should 
have been the one to die. It might so easily have been 
myself, for I had the fever first, and there would have 
been no one to mind — ” 

“What do you mean?” said Miss Maxwell, “every 
one who knew you would have cared.” 

“ Like that ?” he said, lightly. “ There is no one really 
to care. Brufi would have cared, though — poor Brufi. 
He was my friend always. Such a good chap he was — 
the truest friend a man ever had. I wish you could 
have seen him — ” 

He broke ofi with a short laugh. 

“Why should I tell you all this? It can’t interest 
you. You scarcely even know me.” 

“ I think I do, though,” said Miss Maxwell, “ and it 
does interest me, whether it seems probable or not.” 

Some one was playing, and the air, one of those waltzes 
that are played low in the sadder scenes of a modern 
play, stirred Gertrude’s imagination. Incidentally, as 
she remarked that it was the girl who had talked to her 
after dinner who was sitting at the piano, it occurred to 


10 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


Miss Maxwell that perhaps she had been unjust in think- 
ing her tiresome. At this moment she was distinctly 
contributing to the effect of a conversation. Incident- 
ally, also, Miss Maxwell saw that little Harwood leaned 
over her as she played. He was one of her own most 
persistent admirers, and a smile hovered even now about 
the corners of her mouth as a recollection came to her 
of having kissed him of her own accord, telling him to 
be a good boy and not to “ bother,” when, for the sec- 
ond time, he had proposed to her, and she had refused 
him. There had come a pause. 

‘‘ Where does Mrs. Essex — your friend’s mother — 
live?” said Gertrude. 

She asked the question, not so much because she 
wished to know — it never occurred to her then that the 
man who had died in his far-off land could ever affect 
her own fate — as because she liked to hear that tone of 
tenderness that came into Woodford’s voice when he 
spoke of his friend. 

“In London — in Grosvenor Place. She seems very 
rich, but I think she would change places with the veri- 
est beggar-woman to have her son back.” 

He paused again. 

“You must forgive me for being so gloomy. Miss 
Maxwell. You see, I have been there to-day, and it 
has brought back the whole thing to me. Here is Lady 
Julia” 

Miss Maxwell supposed her aunt was becoming un- 
easy. 


CHAPTER II. 


V 




The carriage was announced soon after this, and Lady 
Julia and her niece made their adieus. Woodford went 
with them to the door. Miss Maxwell carried home the 
impression he left upon her as he stood on the steps in 
the moonlight and waved his hand to her as she put up 
the window. 

Lady Julia said : 

“Dear me, that was as dull an evening as I ever spent. 
What a stupid man that was who took me in to dinner — 
Colonel Blane, Mrs. Woodford’s brother. I don’t like 
her champagne ; and did you remark how salt the soup 
was?” 

“I never take soup,” said Miss Maxwell, “and you 
could not expect me to confess that I knew anything of 
champagne, even if I did. I didn’t find it dull.” 

“You looked very well,” said Lady Julia, “and that 
is what is so provoking of you. You always look your 
best when there is no occasion for it. By-the-way, I 
wish you wouldn’t talk to one man the whole evening. 
It gives wrong impressions.” 

“But I liked him,” said Miss Maxwell, with candor 
and to disarm suspicion. “I wish you would ask him to 
dinner. He amused me.” 

“You didn’t look as if you were talking of anything 
that was very amusing. You both looked so serious, I 
thought I had better separate you. He was rather good- 
looking.” 


12 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


‘‘Yes, I tliink lie was,” said Miss Maxwell. 

It is so well to be frank sometimes. 

“ I suppose I must ask him over some day,” said Lady 
Julia. “There is one good thing about you, Gertrude, 
you will never be in love with any one but yourself.” 

“That may have its advantages,” said Miss Maxwell, 
and she smiled to herself in the dark. 

Lady Julia went to sleep in her corner after that, and 
her niece sat up wide awake and looked at the hedges 
and the trees that were white in the moonlight. She 
thought of France Woodford, and wondered whether 
the rest of the party had broken up, and whether he 
had talked to the Miss Ransom he had taken in to din- 
ner as he had talked to her. The horses were trotting 
briskly; the lamps looked pale in the brightness of the 
night. 

Lady Julia slept comfortably till the carriage turned 
into the park. Then she woke up a little cross. She 
said that she was glad to get back to her own house. - 

A letter for Miss Maxwell was lying on the hall table. 
She knew the handwriting well, and, to her regret, she 
was half prepared for the contents, which ran thus : 


“Aldershot, 26th July. 

“My Dear Miss Maxwell, — We have quite suddenly 
been ordered to Malta, and, as I have to start in a fort- 
night, that must plead excuse for me for any precipitancy 
in this letter. I will come to the point at once. You 
know quite well that I love you. I as good as told you 
so the night of your county ball. I have struggled 
against all this for a hundred reasons, but I find, in the 
end, that I cannot leave the country without knowing 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


13 


what one calls one’s ‘fate.’ I am not going to bother 
you with a long letter. You are not in love with me. I 
am neither blind enough nor sufficiently conceited to 
imagine that you are ; but I know that you like me, and 
if you think that you like me well enough to marry me, 
you will make me one of the happiest men in England. 
I am not rich, as you know, but I am in a position to 
keep a wife, and to promise you that, so far as lies in my 
power, you shall not miss any of the luxuries to which 
you have been accustomed. I shall await your answer 
with what patience I can command. I preferred to 
write rather than to go to you in person, because it will 
be easier for you to answer me on paper. I should not 
wish to overpersuade you into what you might regret 
afterwards. May I remind you of three very happy days 
last year? I think you were happy in them, too. I shall 
not ever forget them myself, and I believe, whatever 
your answer may be, that what began then for me will 
last always, and I shall care for you to the end. If there 
is any hope for me, I would rather that you did not write 
at once; but if not, will you remember that I wait in 
suspense? Yours, ever devotedly, 

“Edwakd K^nutsfoed.” 

Miss Maxwell read this letter through. Her maid 
loitered about the room, and she told her to go to bed. 
After that, still holding the letter in her hand, she stood 
at her window for nearly an hour before she began to 
undress. The warm air blew in, and with it the fra- 
grance of the roses that hung heavily upon the wall be- 
low. The moon was over the woods, and the garden was 
black and white. There were sounds in the country 


14 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


night that Gertrude heard as her senses became sharp- 
ened. A bat flitted by. A rook woke and cawed once 
from the elms. There was a rustle in the trees when the 
branches were stirred by the faintest summer breeze, and 
sometimes Gertrude heard the stealthy movement of an 
insect under the leaves of the ivy. 

Miss Maxwell noted all these things and thought of 
Edward Knutsford, and of a time when she had said to 
herself that if he asked her to marry him, she would not 
say him nay. He begged her to remember three days. 
She had not forgotten them. A certain humbleness in 
the tone of his letter touched her. He seemed to take 
her refusal of him almost for granted, and to ask her only 
to answer him deflnitely, that he might know. She 
thought of a morning’s skating with him in the winter ; 
of a long walk on crisp roads ; of a dinner-party ; of the 
ball at Parkhurst, when the words that trembled upon 
his lips had not been spoken. She was interested ; she 
was stirred by what she had read in his face, nothing 
more; yet if those words had then been spoken. . . . She 
interrupted her thought with one of France. 

Gertrude always admitted that her aunt read char- 
acter with very fair, and in some instances remarkable, 
accuracy; but she knew also that there were sides of 
her own to which Lady Julia was entirely blind. She 
knew that one day love might not be for her the slight 
and passing thing of which her aunt deemed her alone 
capable. Later, she was able to make allowances for 
Lady Julia, who judged according to lights which Miss 
Maxwell herself had done her best to darken. 

That the affections did not count for much in the eyes 
of the mistress of Eastwood she had long discovered ; so 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


15 


the fact that she was not in love with Edward Knuts- 
ford would have carried small weight with her aunt if 
he had been eligible in other respects. Miss Maxwell 
had often heard Lady Julia congratulate herself upon 
her success in marrying another niece, Kate Lane, to 
Lord Beckenham. Lady Beckenham and Gertrude were 
friends as well as cousins, and Gertrude knew that if ever 
a wife had good reason for unhappiness that wife was 
Lady Beckenham. 

Lady Julia professed to be of opinion that Lady Beck- 
enham ought to think herself very fortunate. If it had 
not been for certain diplomacy at Eastwood, Becken- 
ham would never have been brought up to the scratch 
(Lady Julia was colloquial), and then Kate would have 
married that little barrister she was so much in love 
with, and she would now be living in a semidetached 
stucco neighborhood or the wilds of farther Bayswater. 

Miss Maxwell argued that if Kate could have been 
happy with her little barrister in Camberwell or Kam- 
schatka, why not ? As it was, she was miserable with 
a husband who was not even faithful to her. 

Lady Julia was shocked. At Gertrude’s age she had 
not known the meaning of such an expression. Kate 
was thought a very lucky girl. Besides, what nonsense 
it was for Gertrude to talk in that way — Gertrude, who 
cared more for looking smart .and being admired than 
for all the sentiment in the world. 

A recollection of all this roused Miss Maxwell’s an- 
tagonism. She liked Edward Knutsford. She had even 
a certain tenderness for him, and from her aunt’s point 
of view he was not eligible. She left the window, and 
pondering deeply she took up her pen to write to him. 


16 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


She was accustomed to act on her own responsibility. 
Then once more she remembered Woodford. 

Her head rested on her hand, and she played idly with 
her pen upon the paper. She drew faces and lines and 
curves and other wanton devices. In the end she wrote 
and refused. She was conscious of saying in the letter 
all the usual things. It was hideously stereotyped, she 
thought, to express her sense of the honor Captain 
Knutsford had done her, and to regret that she could 
not marry him. But she ended with very real protesta- 
tions of eternal friendship. 

“ I do like you,” -she wrote ; I have always liked 
you, and I always shall, but not in such a way as to 
permit my marrying you. It would not be fair either 
to you or to myself. Please believe that I shall always 
think of you as a dear friend, and after this do not drop 
me altogether.” She signed herself his “affectionate 
Gertrude Maxwell.” 

Possibly the day before she might have found that 
she liked him well enough to marry him. She went to 
sleep thinking of France Woodford. 


CHAPTER III. 

The sun was pouring into the dining-room when 
Gertrude came down to breakfast the next morning. It 
flashed upon the silver kettle which sang merrily over 
the blue flame of the spirit-lamp, and the surface of 
every shining object threw forth borrowed rays. The 
windows were open, and Gertrude went out for a few 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


17 


minutes upon the terrace. The sun caught her brown 
hair, and found in it a tinge of burnished copper. She 
put her hand to her forehead to shade her eyes. A thin 
blue mist was on the hills, and over the meadows hung 
the haze of the dew that was being absorbed. The sky- 
had no cloud. It was clear, blue, and infinitely high. 
Tiny points sparkled like diamonds in the gravel of the 
terrace. On the steps a snail had left a trail of silver. 
The air was full of the hum of insect life. Drops of 
water stood on spiders’ webs and in the cups of the 
flowers. 

Lady Julia Maxwell came to the window. 

“ Come in to breakfast !” she cried. 

She had a somewhat metallic voice which carried a 
long way. Gertrude had walked to the farther end of 
the terrace. She was picking heliotrope, and she walked 
slowly back to the dining-room, shaking the dew from 
the little bunch as she went. 

Lady Julia was cross, and complained again of Mrs. 
Woodford’s champagne. 

“ I knew it would disagree with me,” she said. 

The answer to this was so very obvious that Gertrude 
made none, but contented herself with a smile. 

A wasp now flew in through the open window and 
buzzed round the marmalade. Lady Julia tried to kill 
it, and it very naturally stung her. Gertrude felt in- 
clined to take the part of the wasp, and she tried not to 
laugh at the expression of injury on her aunt’s face. 
She bound up the smarting hand, and, by way of taking 
the sufferer’s thoughts off herself, she told her of Knuts- 
ford’s letter. 

Lady Julia writhed. 


18 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


“ I know it will swell,” she said, I know it will. 
What did he write to you about ? Betty’s hand swelled 
right up her arm to the shoulder, and she had to carry 
it in a sling, and had to wear a high dress for weeks. 
Horrid little beast ! and I was only going to kill it with 
my pocket-handkerchief. Is there any ammonia in the 
house ? The wasp is dead, anyway.^ Is he still at Aider- 
shot?” 

Gertrude shook the questions in this speech free of 
extraneous matter. 

“ I dare say there is some ammonia in the house-keep- 
er’s room. I will ring and tell Parker to ask. Captain 
Knutsford is still at Aldershot. He wrote to tell me 
that his regiment has been ordered abroad, and he starts 
for Malta next week.” 

Possibly Lady Julia’s hand was really hurting her. 
She was certainly very cross. 

“ With how many more of your friends do you keep 
up a correspondence?” she asked. “Every man who 
has known you a week seems to think he may write to 
you. I never wrote to any one but my brothers when I 
was a girl.” 

“ I am afraid you are in great pain,” said Gertrude, 
with sympathy. She helped herself to some mush- 
rooms to hide her smile, and she buttered a piece of 
toast. “ He wrote to ask me to marry him,” she said, 
presently. 

The sting sank into unimportance. The butler an- 
swered the bell, and when Miss Maxwell explained to 
him that her aunt had been stung by a wasp, and told 
him to ask the house-keeper if she had any ammonia. 
Lady Julia said that it did not matter. Parker with- 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


19 


drew, and Gertrude found herself smiling again as she 
went on with her breakfast. 

“ Dear me, child, what chances you have !’^ said Lady 
Julia, with interest; “I do not mean that this is such a 
very good catch. But how well you go down ! It is 
evidently only a question of your being seen. I think, 
if nothing happens before next year, I must give you a 
season in town. It would be an awful exertion, but I 
really think it would be worth while. What it is to 
have a good appearance !” 

“ I hope it isn’t only my appearance,” said Gertrude. 
She was pleased though, for, after all, your appearance 
is the only thing in which you can have no hand. The 
rest you can do for yourself. “ You can make yourself 
good,” she was thinking ; “ you can never make your- 
self pretty, speaking generally.” 

“ You mustn’t throw yourself away on Captain Knuts- 
ford,” continued Lady Julia, helping herself to. coffee, 
and forgetting that her hand was quite disabled; “I 
don’t think he would do at all. Ho, Gertrude, you 
must make a really good marriage. There is no reason 
why you shouldn’t. Indeed, there is every reason why 
you should. And the fact that you are a sufficiently 
sensible girl not to fall in love on your own account 
makes it not only possible, but even probable, that you 
will.” 

Miss Maxwell had it on the tip of her tongue to say 
that that was because hitherto she had not met the right 
man. She might even have added that she would not 
trust very much to her supposed coldness if — She re- 
frained, however, being wise in her generation, and she 
went on with her breakfast. 


20 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


The gardeners had begun to mow the lawn, and the air 
throbbed with the jerking noise of the machine. The 
sweetest country scents were in the air that came in 
througli the open window, and the insects kept up a 
steady humming round the flowers. A butterfly flut- 
tered in and alighted on the table-cloth, where the sun 
bathed his yellow wings as he opened and closed them. 

Gertrude began to make plans for the morning. She 
would walk to the village, she thought, and post her let- 
ter, and then she would go up into the woods. She could 
fancy how the sun would slant down through the trees 
and reveal the colors of moss and root and leaf — 

Her aunt interrupted her. 

“I suppose you will write to him this morning?” 

“ To whom ?” said Gertrude, absently. 

‘‘To Captain Knutsford.” 

“ I have written already,” was Miss Maxwell’s answer, 
and Lady Julia looked at her for some moments in con- 
templative silence. 

“ You are wonderfully cool, Gertrude,” she said then ; 
“nothing seems to ruffle you. I believe if the world 
came to an end you would be found quite neat and un- 
moved in your tailor-made dress, looking quite pretty 
and quite well-bred. I half wonder whether you are 
really as impassive as you seem. You appear to have 
shut all trouble out of your life. If it were not that 
it would upset all my plans for you, I think I should 
like to see a little more heart. You pretended to be 
very unhappy about young Wakefield — you weren’t a 
bit, were you ?” 

“ I thought I was,” said Miss Maxwell, smiling. 

“But you weren’t,” persisted Lady Julia. 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


21 


Miss Maxwell could scarcely have said why she 
thought of France Woodford at that moment, but she 
did think of him, and she heard again the voice that had 
spoken of the friend who died. 

I know now that I was not,’’ she said. 

Here let me say that Gertrude’s training was scarcely 
such as to have conduced to any display of feelings, 
even if they existed. Her worldly wisdom she had got- 
ten as a sort of a protection. Miss Maxwell and her 
brother Henry had comfortable little incomes of their 
own, but since their childhood they had been practically 
alone. Neither of them could remember father or 
mother, and they had tossed about the world pretty 
much at their own sweet wills. It is not very surpris- 
ing if they had learned some of its teaching. While 
Henry was at Eton and Oxford, and afterwards amus- 
ing himself where and as he thought best, Gertrude 
had been to schools in England and abroad, and thence 
to a series of relations. Finally, her aunt, having lost 
her own daughter, and having married Kate Lane — 
Gertrude’s cousin — to Lord Beckenham and her own 
satisfaction, offered her a home at Eastwood. 

Gertrude had been living dully with an uncle for the 
previous year in Berkeley Square and monotonous splen- 
dor, and she accepted Lady Julia’s invitation at once. 

The lines she had laid down for herself were those of 
the average girl (though she may not admit it) who had 
lived in the world and kept her eyes open. She only 
wanted to get through life with the least possible amount 
of pain, and to enjoy herself. Her aims may not have 
been very noble, but things noble are somewhat out of 
reach, and so far she had attained her moderate demands. 


22 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


She had ideals, it is true, but she scarcely expected to 
see them realized. 

Up to a certain point, I say, was Lady Julia right. 
Beyond that point, which set the limit to her knowledge 
of her niece, she could not see. 

Miss Maxwell had written her letter to Knutsford 
with no very keen appreciation of the pain she was in- 
flicting. This, you must understand, came not from any 
modest depreciation of herself or her own value, but 
from the inability at that time to grasp what love was. 

It was later that Gertrude began to understand many 
things. Her eyes were opened. She had enjoyed her 
conquests as conquests. She had, in fact, “ loved love ” 
as a thing to gain without giving, but then she knew 
that she could love a lover. 


CHAPTER IV. 

As soon as breakfast was over, Gertrude started to 
walk into the village to post her letter. She had stipu- 
lated with her aunt when flrst she took, up her abode at 
Eastwood for the freedom to which she had been so 
much accustomed. Lady Julia was not of a straight- 
laced stock, and it suited her admirably to know that 
her niece considered herself capable of going about 
alone. For her own part, she seldom went outside the 
garden without the carriage, and Gertrude would have 
fared badly in the matter of exercise if she had relied 
upon her companionship. 

The day was surpassingly fair. Later, perhaps, it 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


23 


would be very hot. The cattle were lying in the shade 
of the trees. The grasshoppers were singing loudly in 
the grass, so that the lower air seemed alive with the 
sound of them. Here and there, where the sun had not 
yet reached, the dew still lay on leaf and blade. The 
hills were now more deeply blue. 

As Miss Maxwell turned out of the park gates a dog- 
cart passed her. The driver turned round, raised his 
hat and pulled up. 

She recognized George Brabant. 

If there had been time she would have gone into the 
lodge to avoid him, but short of cutting him dead there 
was no choice but to go on. 

In a quick glance at Brabant two things would strike 
you — a certain dominating expression suggestive of cru- 
elty ; and the restlessness of his keen eyes. 

Gertrude, after the first fancy consequent upon her 
conquest had worn ofi, regarded him with something ap- 
proaching to aversion. 

Like every other girl she had dabbled in the Buddh- 
ism-and- water, which, in a thin stream, has been dribbling 
through the literature of the day. Then there had been 
a time when she had had leanings towards such cheap 
theosophy as she had drawn from the pages of the mag- 
azines and reviews, and, though the subject had now lost 
its very passing interest for her, occasionally certain dog- 
mas and doctrines recurred to her. She never saw Bra- 
bant without remembering that she had learned, in those 
days, that the body was the only shape the soul of its 
owner could take. Given the face of George Brabant, 
she did not think that the man could have been either 
reliable, disciplined, or moral. He was still not ugly. 


24 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


Gertrude was nothing if not broad in her views. The 
world as a school teaches a certain wideness and lenien- 
cy, and as soon as the occult had lost its interest for her 
she had developed a strong belief in heredity. That we 
have very little to do with ourselves was for the time 
being her creed, and that we are pretty much what our 
fathers and theirs have made us. So, while she believed 
that there was little that was lawless of which George 
Brabant might not be capable, she thought that his 
disposition was more his misfortune than his fault. 
His keen and restless eyes had an attraction of their 
own. 

“ Keep still, you brute,” he said, addressing the mare, 
who showed signs of a wish to proceed on her way. 
“ Why didn’t you go into the lodge he said to Ger- 
trude, looking not at her but across into the park. “ I 
saw you had half a mind to ; that was why I stopped. I 
am unamiable, you know. You have told me so your- 
self. Well, I have come back. Miss Maxwell. You 
don’t seem very glad to see me.” 

“ Do stop flicking that poor beast,” said Gertrude ; 

she would stand still enough if you would only let her 
alone. If you are at all in a better mood than when you 
went away I am glad to see you.” 

George Brabant turned his restless eyes upon her. 
They were very light in color. 

“ I haven’t much to make me,” he said. 

Miss Maxwell did not answer this at once. She patted 
the mare, which he continued to flick with his whip. He 
let the lash reach nearer and nearer to her hand, and he 
watched it with a sensual interest and the absorption of 
an angler throwing a fly. He would like to see a red 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


25 


welt on the white flesh of the hand from which she had 
drawn the glove. 

“You are right,” said Miss Maxwell at length. “I 
did think of turning into the lodge.” 

She gave a sudden cry. The stinging cord had wound 
itself about her wrist. 

“ You see what you have done,” she said, in a low 
voice. 

By force of will she kept back the tears that started 
to her eyes. For a few moments she was in horrible 
pain. 

“ I don’t believe I hit you,” said Brabant. 

“Believe what you like,” said Gertrude; “look at my 
wrist.” 

She held up her hand as she spoke, moving back, and 
then standing beside the cart. He averted his eyes for 
an instant, then looked as she had bidden him. Quite 
suddenly he caught her fingers and kissed her wrist. 
Gertrude withdrew her hand. She looked at the red 
mark of the lash to which he had pressed his lips. 
Thence she looked up into his eyes. He saw her start. 
In a quick optical phantasm she saw across his face the 
angry red line which was, in fact, upon her own flesh. 

The illusion was momentary, but she remembered it. 
It left, indeed, upon her a more lasting impression than 
the incident of the whip itself. There was a pause 
before she spoke, and her lip curved contemptuously. 
But when she broke the silence it was quite quietly, 
and without anger : 

“You have not an atom of self-control,” she said. 
“ How can you expect me to like you ?” 

He made no answer. His desire was spent in the 


26 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


kiss, and he was looking at the light on the blue hills. 
Where there were hollows the shadows seemed purple. 
A wren hopped from twig to twig in the hedge at hand. 
Gertrude watched it. She remembered presently that 
Brabant’s road and her own lay in the same direction, 
and till he was gone she would not move. 

“ You had better drive on,” she said, coldly. “ I dare 
say Mrs. Brown at the lodge and all the little Browns 
whom I can see behind the curtain, have been quite 
sufficiently edified by what has passed between us.” 

George Brabant seemed about to speak. He had put 
down the whip. He turned from looking at the hills. 

‘‘ Or shall I go back ?” said Gertrude. “ One or the 
other.” 

He raised his hat in silence and drove on. 

Gertrude waited till he was out of sight, and then 
she continued her walk. The incident had somewhat 
disturbed her, though she showed little sign of discom- 
posure. She had the temperament that retains an out- 
ward calm under more ruffling circumstances. Only 
perhaps a heightened color spoke materially to the state 
of her inward being. She tried to recompose her mind 
to the receptive mood in which she had been regarding 
the beauties of the day. Her wrist was still smarting 
fiercely. The skin was not broken, but on and beneath 
it was a mark that time would not be quick to efface. 
She was saying to herself that Brabant’s conduct was 
intolerable, and that he was not a gentleman. But she 
said it more as if she would convince herself than as the 
result of conviction. Still it satisfied any longing for 
revenge as long as the actual pain continued. 

She directed her steps to the post-office. 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


27 


Mrs. Peck, the postmistress, claims a few words of 
description. She had a long ear and a keen eye, and 
news was not more zealously discussed to the tune of 
the drawing and drinking of beer at the King’s Arms 
opposite than across the counter over which she pre- 
sided. To go at all to the shop whereat was executed 
the postal business of the district meant inevitably to 
be the recipient of a chronicle of the doings of the 
neighborhood. 

Mrs. Peck had started life in a lodging-house at Peck- 
ham Eye. To her pride she went in the village by the 
name of Mrs. Peck o’ Peckham, which, she was wont 
to observe, was for all the world like Peter Piper, and 
from which she derived a satisfaction that was out of 
all proportion to the distinction. Her London origin 
gave her position. 

She was a woman of robust habit, plain, ruddy, good- 
tempered. Her expression had the ingenuous innocence 
of a Dutch doll, and her features, more especially when 
seen in profile, resembled not a little that classical toy. 
Her dress was black, and calls for no comment ; but to 
supplement her hair, she wore at the back of her head a 
curious arrangement of black thread, the artlessness of 
which was almost pathetic. 

Mr. Peck was of that unassertive type from which a 
woman of masculine build so often chooses a husband. 
He was generally smiling. He advanced his opinions 
deprecatingly, looked after the telegrams, was very con- 
tent, and obeyed his wife without question. Gertrude, 
looking at him, sometimes wondered what he thought 
of it all. He and his wife were one, but that one was 
Mrs. Peck ; and only at such intervals as the augmen- 


28 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


tation of a large family exacted was she absent for a 
short space from the scene of her duties, and even then, 
from an inner room, she called out instructions to the 
colorless and happy person who looked up to her as 
completely metaphorically as he did literally, and whom 
she owned as her lord. On those occasions when Mrs. 
Peck was incapacitated from work (and they occurred 
with surprising regularity), Mr. Peck did his best to col- 
lect such items of news as he thought might interest 
her ; at all others she absorbed and emitted on her own 
account reports of everything that took place. 

She was, as Miss Maxwell divined from a certain 
alertness of attitude, in her most voluble mood on this 
particular day. Her husband was busy with the sav- 
ings-bank books, and she herself, having sent out the 
month-old baby with one of the older children, was at 
leisure. 

“ Her ladyship well, miss, I hope ? That’s right. I 
see the carriage driving Parkhurst way last night, and 
I wondered whether there was a party anywhere as I 
hadn’t heard of.” 

Miss Maxwell confessed to having dined at the Manor. 

“ Then they must have sent your note by messenger,” 
said Mrs. Peck, with interest. “ There hasn’t been no 
Manor letters for Eastwood lately — not till to-day, how- 
ever. There’s going to be another party, judging by 
the Parkhurst pos’mark. A lot of ’em this morning ; 
one for her ladyship, and one for the Kansoms, and one 
for Mrs. Mariner, and a lot more. It’s tennis, I expect. 
I can’t think however you don’t get tired of it — run- 
ning about in the sun. I shouldn’t like to do it meself. 
You don’t seem to burn much, either. The young ladies 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


29 


at the Yic'rage are perfect sights, I call them, particular 
Miss Mabel, asking pardon for talking so free. I can’t 
think whatever they’ll do when the balls begin in the 
autumn. Their necks and arms ’ll be piebald. Was it 
stamps you asked for, miss? Shall I put your letter in 
the box, save you going round ?” 

She read the direction on the envelope as she spoke. 

“ Captain Knutsford. That was ’im as come down in 
the winter.” 

‘‘ For the skating,” said Miss Maxwell. 

“And I see Mr. Brabant’s come ’ome,” said Mrs. 
Peck, as if the one name suggested the other, as proba- 
bly, to one who knew as much as the postmistress, it 
did. She looked at Miss Maxwell for comment, and 
Miss Maxwell said, 

“Yes.” 

“ He drove by just now,” proceeded Mrs. Peck, “ and 
looks stranger than ever, to my thinkin’. Ah, there’s 
queer blood in that family, miss ! I wonder if her lady- 
ship remembers his grandfather ? He was an odd gen- 
tleman, he was, and there was strange goings-on up at 
Fenton — things as ’d make your ’air stand on end. I 
can remember Peck’s mother — go on with your work. 
Peck, I’m not talkin’ to you — Peck’s mother telling me 
about Mrs. Brabant — that’s -this young man’s gran’mar. 
They say she died of fright — nothink else but ’im look- 
in’’ at her with them white eyes. Peck’s mother, she 
was house-keeper there, and Mr. Brabant he’d used just 
to look and look at his wife. She got thinner and thin- 
ner. She seemed just to waste away. Often and often 
old Mrs. Peck’s told me how of a evening he’d just sit 
and look at the poor lady, till sometimes she’d cry out 


80 MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 

or faint. And when she was alone, she’d used to cry 
and cry.” 

“ How horrible !” said Miss Maxwell. She was all 
attention now. 

“ And after she died,” went on Mrs. Peck, they had 
to lock him up — he was quite crazy. I sometimes think 
Mr. George ’e’ll go that way, too. Have ever you no- 
ticed his eyes. Miss Maxwell ? 1 saw them this morn- 
ing with the sun a-flarin’ in them as he drove by, and 
they gave me quite a turn.” 

Gertrude had listened in wonder to what she had 
heard. How much of George Brabant’s nature by her 
own pet theory of heredity would this explain ? She 
felt a personal resentment against the customer whose 
entrance interrupted Mrs. Peck’s disclosures. 

The post-office was also a general shop, and sold an 
endless variety of things — from papers to peppermint, 
from cloth to candles. The girl who came in said : 

“Mother wants twopenn’orth of mixed biscuits, please; 
and will you pick ’em out all with sugar on the top.” 

Mrs. Peck expressed a righteous horror at the unfair- 
ness of such a proposition. 

“It ain’t likely,” she said; “I must be just before 
I’m gen’rous, and I give ’em one with another. You 
can take ’em that way, or you can leave ’em.” 

The girl chose to take them, and Gertrude looked on 
while the order was being executed, hoping that she 
might hear something more of Brabant’s family history. 
But Mrs. Peck was full of the principles upon which 
the shop was carried on ; and while she shook the dry 
little biscuits out of their tin into the scale, she contin- 
ued her discourse. 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFEECTIONS. 


31 


“It ’d be a pretty way of doing things if I was to 
chop and choose for each customer. One ’d say, ‘ I’ll 
’ave ’em all with currants in;’ and another, ‘I won’t 
have any of the carraways’ — a very pretty way.” 

She touched the scale as she spoke, and threw in an- 
other biscuit, which, proving too heavy, she broke in 
half, thereby making the weights balance. 

Miss Maxwell thought then she had surely finished, 
but as she opened her paper-bag after blowing into it, 
and turned the corners down, Mrs. Peck started off again 
like an automatic machine into which some one has put 
another coin : 

“ No, sHare and share alike ; that’s my motto, and what 
my customers will always find me live up to. If you’re 
to be dependable, you must be fair. There you are, my 
dear, and thank you. You can tell your mother I serve 
one as I serve another — Liberty, Quality, and Eternity 
— one the same as another.” 

Whatever this might mean, and in what way the ex- 
traordinary words were applicable to the case in point, 
was never explained, for, other customers coming in. 
Miss Maxwell felt that she had no reasonable excuse for 
waiting. 

The crack of a whip on a passing cart reminded her 
suddenly of the event of the morning, and before her 
eyes there passed a vision of Brabant’s face as she had 
last seen it, and again it was bisected by a red and angry 
line. 


CHAPTER V. 


Miss Maxwell shuddered and left the shop ; but as 
she turned from the threshold, she was conscious with a 
sense of relief and pleasure of a thought of France 
Woodford. She felt that she had seen or heard some- 
thing that had reminded her of him. 

She stopped for a few moments, trying to trace her 
impression to its source, and she looked into the window 
abstractedly. Postal notices and advices respecting dog 
and gun licenses shared the space with reels of thread, 
marbles, writing-paper, and all the cheap variety that 
comprises the stock-in-trade of the average village shop. 
She was moving away. It seemed unlikely that Wood- 
ford could have spoken to her from that heterogeneous 
collection. Yet she remembered relevantly, or the re- 
verse, at this moment, that Lady Julia always said of 
the Pecks’ shop that if you wanted a box of pins, you 
would not be able to get it ; but if you wanted ruby 
velvet, or anything else that was impossible, and that 
you never did want, you would be sure to find it in the 
stock. The improbable then was the probable, and even 
as she prepared to go she was conscious of a repetition 
of her experience. This time a word was on her lips. 
She must have read it somewhere in the window. It 
took her far across the sea, it stirred all the vague and 
fleeting fancies of the night before, it showed her the 
lonely grave of the man who had died, and the face of 
the friend who would always mourn him. 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIOXS. 


33 


She looked again, and she found that which she was 
seeking in a piece of music which lay open before her. 

“Song of a Kanch,” she read, and she ran through 
a few of the words : 

“Out in the west the shadows are falling, 

The red red sun sets the prairie aflame, 

Mate to his mate is tenderly calling — ” 

Here the page should have been turned over, and Miss 
Maxwell was brought to a stand- still, as one’s passage is 
checked in a blind street. The simile, indeed, presented 
itself to her, and she said ^^ImpasseP^ below her breath. 
She read the words again, and in imagination she filled 
in the details of the scene conjured up before her mind’s 
eye. Her mood was once more receptive. It seemed 
to her that she was able to realize something of the pict- 
ure, to look on at the falling Western night as Woodford 
must have seen it fall a thousand times. She heard 
sounds faintly as from a distance ; she saw an empty sky, 
in which, when the sunset stains should leave it, the 
stars would kindle. She thought the grass of the prairie 
must make music in the lonely twilight. She brought 
herself back from the Hew World to the Old with an 
effort. She re-entered the sliop and bought the song, 
telling Mrs. Peck to send it up to Eastwood. After 
that she left the village. 

The sun was up now, and the whole country was 
golden with the light. TJie square tower of the church 
rose above the trees to the left of the path, and she saw 
the birds that were circling round the belfry. Through 
the hedge she could see the wheat in the adjacent field, 
and the red fiame of the poppies, and the blue star of 
3 


34 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


the cornflowers. A rabbit darted away before her. A 
lark that she saw as a rising speck in the sky filled the 
air with its singing. 

She left the path presently and went down to the 
brook. It ran smoothly, and with a soft swirl between 
its curving banks. The water was so clear that day that 
Gertrude could see every pebble where the sun struck 
the bed. She could see fish in the pools, and sometimes 
the silver flash of their scales. The stream rose up in 
Lady Julia’s woods and flowed thence towards Park- 
hurst, where it joined the river. It passed through the 
Manor grounds. Gertrude thought of this now. If 
ever she knew any one there well enough to write to 
him, might not a message be floated down upon that 
running current ? 

She knelt and dipped her hand into the water. A 
dragon-fly flew by with gauze wings and prismatic body 
that shot out strange colors in the sunlight. A bird 
chased a butterfly. The water gurgled softly — so softly. 
Gertrude broke a twig and dropped the bits of stick in 
one by one, giving each a little message, as a nun tells 
her beads, and watching them as they were carried away. 
Lady Julia might have doubted the evidence of her 
senses if she could have heard what Miss Maxwell 
whispered to the stream. 

“ Tell him that I am thinking of him — of him and 
the friend who died. Tell him that I see him plainly, 
his face, his eyes. Tell him that I think that I shall see 
him always — ” 

The sharp bark of a dog came down upon the brook, 
and the clearness of the water was sullied by mud as 
clouds obscure the sun. In wringing her wet hand free 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


35 


of the drops, Gertrude saw the red mark of the lash on 
her wrist. 

The barking was nearer. A couple of collies came 
bounding towards her with glad sounds of recognition, 
and almost before Gertrude knew the wild wish that 
rose within her, it was realized, and France Woodford 
came round the curve where the trees hid the course of 
the stream. Each caught sight of the other at the same 
moment. Gertrude saw the play of expression upon 
his face as he took in her identity. There was no pre- 
tence in the glad surprise. He came towards her 
quickly. 

“ Miss Maxwell !” he said. 

That was all ; but his tone implied something more, 
and in a moment Gertrude knew that he had been 
thinking of her. She wondered whether he read a like 
confession in her face. There was a brief silence after 
shaking hands. Each waited for the other to speak. 
In thought Gertrude’s acquaintance with him had ad- 
vanced to a point from which her actual knowledge of 
him was still far distant, and she felt that she must take 
her bearings before she moved. 

He was the first to speak. 

“ Where are we ?” he said, somewhat abruptly, but 
with a smile that saved the few words from brusqueness. 

The question was so exactly that which Miss Maxwell 
was asking of herself that for a moment she did not re- 
ply. Then she realized that he was speaking of place, 
and the little laugh that she gave before she answered 
him was perplexing. 

“That is Eastwood,” she said — “there, under the 
near hill.” 


36 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


She looked in a direction as she spoke, and lie fol- 
lowed her gaze to where the white top of the house, and 
the curling smoke from a chimney, were visible over the 
trees. She looked back, and he looked back too. It was 
like coming from the past to the present, and Gertrude’s 
case stood as before. 

“ Then I am trespassing?” said Woodford. 

Gertrude nodded, and he laughed. 

In his rough gray suit and his leggings, and with the 
sun in his eyes and glistening on his teeth, he looked the 
embodiment of health and vigorous manhood. 

Miss Maxwell was gradually striking a balance for 
herself. As yet, since the preceding evening, the ac- 
quaintance seemed to have gone backward. She was 
wishing for the more serious mood in which she had last 
seen him. Tlien a sudden friendship had seemed im- 
minent. Was it only the hour, the music, and the other 
conditions of the meeting that had seemed to bridge the 
gulf between them ? Curiously, it was by the lightest 
jesting that the consummation she desired came about. 

‘‘Aunt Julia and I do not always prosecute,” she said. 

“ I would risk that,” he answered ; “ some things 
prove worth a penalty, and this walk is one of them.” 

“ You value your exercise — ?” 

“ This walk and this day.” 

“ Oh, you are trying to make a pretty speech ?” 

He laughed again. 

“I wish you had been as glad to see me as I was to 
see you,” he said. 

The dogs were panting after their run, and they 
stretched themselves on the grass. Two red tongues 
protruded. 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


37 


“Perhaps I was,” said Gertrude, “but you ought not 
to make me say so.” 

The shadows of some rooks flapped by on the grass. 
The shapes were distorted, and Gertrude looked up to 
see what it was that was passing. 

“ I was wishing to see you,” said France, after a pause. 
“ It seemed to me curious last night after you had gone 
that I should have talked to you as I did — about poor 
old Bruff, 1 mean. You see I was full of him, but that 
was no reason for boring you with accounts of a man 
you had never seen.” 

“You didn’t bore me,” said Gertrude, quickly, “you 
know that you didn’t. I liked to hear what you said, 
and I felt almost as if I had known him — as I got to 
know you. I have thought of him a great deal to-day. 
You didn’t bore me.” 

“You didn’t seem bored,” said Woodford, “but that 
was surprising.” 

Gertrude looked at his face and wondered many 
things. She did not speak for a few moments, and the 
swirl of the brook and the chirping of the grasshoppers 
fllled the silence. Then she said again : 

“ I have thought of him a great deal to-day. I think 
it ought to comfort his mother to know that he was not 
alone. He had you with him, and I think that you 
could be very tender to your friend.” 

“ He was everything to me,” said Woodford. 

A rat splashed in the water, and the dogs sprang up 
and darted ofl in wild pursuit. 

“ I miss him every hour of the day,” he added. 

Something in the sympathy with which Gertrude was 
regarding him struck him forcibly. 


38 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


“ I believe that you could be a stanch friend,” he 
said; ‘‘am I right?” 

He looked at her steadily, and her eyes met his. 

“ I think you are right.” 

He seemed uncertain about something that rose to his 
lips. Her frankness reassured him. 

“ Do you know what they say of you ?” he said. 

“Ho,” answered she, “and I do not think I much 
mind. But I should like to hear what has been said of 
me to you.” 

“I have been told, then — am I to tell you?” 

Gertrude nodded. 

“ I have been told that you have no heart ; that every 
man you meet falls in love with you, and that he is no 
more to you than the dust under your feet.” 

“ I wonder who told you that?” said Gertrude, slowly. 
“Supposing it is partly true, what then? I am not 
claiming the every-man-I-meet part of it. But suppos- 
ing I have not been able to care for those who have 
done me the honor of wishing to marry me, what then? 
Our affections are perhaps just that part of our being 
which we are least able to control.” 

“ I think that too,” said France. 

“ And are you going to be warned by what you have 
been told,” asked Gertrude, “ or are you going to be 
my friend ?” 

“ Will you let me ?” he said. 

She nodded, and he saw the sun flash a gleam of 
copper out of the brown hair. The dogs had lost their 
rat, and they returned with muddy feet and dripping 
coats. France Woodford threw his stick, that they 
might not shake themselves in such close proximity to 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


39 


Miss Maxwell and himself. They bounded away yelp- 
ing, and barked at each other as they collided. Presently 
they came back like oxen yoked together, an end of the 
stick in each mouth. 

“They are dear old dogs,” said Woodford, patting 
them; “they and the stream brought me here. We 
thought we would explore it, eh, Bruce ? I find that 
it runs from somewhere up there in the woods right to 
Parkhurst.” 

“ It is the same stream you have in the grounds at the 
Manor,” said Gertrude. 

“I know. That’s where we found it, eh. Trap? 
There, down, down; you’re wet. And we followed it 
right up here. Do you know that it fiows just as you 
see it all the way ? Ho water-falls or rocks or anything. 
I believe a bit of wood would be carried straight down 
from here to the Manor.” 

Gertrude looked at him quickly. It seemed almost 
as if he must have divined the thoughts that had passed 
through her brain while as yet he had not been in sight. 
She thought of the little bits of stick that were even 
now being hurried along, each bearing its unconscious 
message. Her color deepened ever so little. 

“ Why should we not try ?” he asked, smiling. 

“ How would you stop it if it got there ?” said Ger- 
trude. “It would float on to Parkhurst, where the 
brook joins the river just before the mill.” 

“ So it would,” said France, “ unless I could rig up 
something across the stream — ” 

One of the dogs thrust a cold nose into his hand. 

“Ho it wouldn’t,” he cried, joyfully, and Gertrude 
saw a boyish side of him, that added to his attraction 


40 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


for her. ‘‘There is a grating under the bridge in the 
drive, don’t you remember, just before the stream runs 
into the pond, which my aunt calls the lake? It would 
stop there. Let us see, anyway. Look, here’s a bit of 
wood.” 

He picked up a piece of bark, and began to cut a 
smooth surface upon it with his penknife. 

“ What are you doing that for ?” asked Gertrude. 
She watched the movements of his hands, and thence 
her eyes wandered to his face. 

“Well, you see,” answered France, “ we must identify 
it. Will you write something on it?” 

“ It would wash out.” 

He finished what he was about before looking up. 

“ Hot if you write firmly,” he said. “ Here is a 
pencil.” 

Gertrude took it and the wood from his hand. She 
pressed heavily on the lead, and the point broke. He 
cut a fresh one, and she wrote a date — the date of the 
preceding day — and having written it, she dropped the 
bit of bark into the stream. 


CHAPTER VI. 

The gong sounded for lunch as Gertrude came down 
the hill behind the house. Lady Julia, in a mushroom 
hat and a pair of old gloves, and with a large blue apron 
tied over her dress, was pottering about the garden. 
She held a pair of shears, and she snipped ofi a leaf 
here and there. 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


41 


“That you, Gertrude? Come and look at these beds. 
Did you ever see anything so disgraceful? I don’t be- 
lieve Wilson attends to anything but the hot-houses and 
his stupid orchids. If he isn’t careful, I won’t have or- 
chids at all. They take all his time, and they aren’t worth 
what I spend on them. 'The men don’t do a thing if he 
doesn’t look after them. I found Lang asleep just now 
in the tool-house. When Bingham was here, this bed 
was a blaze of color. Look at the rose under my win- 
dow. It has all been blown away from the wall. That 
happened in the storm last week, and there it is still. 
My hand is very much swollen. Come in to lunch.” 

Gertrude followed her aunt into the house, drawing off 
her gloves as she went. She threw them and her hat 
onto the hall table. Lady Julia was irritable, and grum- 
bled in a good-tempered way about trifles. She men- 
tioned the invitation to the Manor, of which Gertrude 
had heard from Mrs. Peck, and added that Mrs. Wood- 
ford seemed determined to exploiter her young man. 

She was looking at her niece’s wrist, and, being some- 
what short-sighted, she saw the mark as a blurred red- 
ness. 

“Have you been stung, too ?” she said, with a coldness 
that suggested annoyance that another should share her 
own distinction. 

Gertrude nodded. 

“ Bee or wasp ?” 

“ Heither.” 

“ Oh, only a fly !” 

Gertrude explained. 

“That all!” said Lady Julia, sweetly. Her niece’s 
wound was less serious than her own. “If you had been 


42 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


really stung, it would have been the first thing you would 
have spoken of.” 

Miss Maxwell smiled. She was thinking that if she 
had felt constrained to speak of what was uppermost in 
her thoughts, sting or no sting, she would have had to 
speak of France Woodford. The talk grew desultory 
and intersected by the frequent silences that are inevi- 
table between dwellers under a common roof. Gertrude, 
in one of these, fell to wondering whether France would 
find her wooden letter caught by the grating under the 
bridge at the Manor, and whether for him the date which 
she had written upon it would have any meaning. The 
bits of stick were dumb, and could give no warmer mes- 
sage. It was a matter of chance whether the piece of 
bark would travel at all. It might be carried the whole 
way without a break, or it might be caught upon the 
first root or branch that slipped into the stream. 

Lady Julia commented again upon the delinquencies 
of her gardener and the paucity of the Eastwood peaches 
under his rule. 

“And I would rather have a good peach than an in- 
different orchid any day,” she said. 

Gertrude attended to her with an effort. Peaches and 
prejudices mattered little to her just then. How little 
anything mattered ! It was good to be young and to 
live on the same earth with France Woodford. 

The sound of wheels on the drive started Lady Julia 
to her feet, and to a recollection of the fact that she was 
at home, that luncheon had been very late, that visitors 
came early, that she was still wearing the mushroom hat 
and the blue apron, and she hurried off to clean herself 
up, as she elegantly expressed it. This she accomplished 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


43 


in an incredibly short space of time, and Gertrude had 
barely got off first subjects with the first batch before 
she came in, handsome, neat, and smart, and with the 
genial manner of the average well-bred and insincere 
English woman. She could be cold as an iceberg and 
stiff as a porcupine quill upon occasion, but she had also 
the easy knack, when she wished it, of making her visit- 
ors think that she was glad to see each one of them per- 
sonally; and if Mrs. Ransom was allowed to see that 
Lady Julia was bored with the endless Primrose League 
of Mrs. Hatton, the wife of the member for Parkhurst, 
and Mrs. gatton knew quite well that Mrs. Ransoms’ 
almshouses did not at all interest the mistress of East- 
wood, neither of these good people ever guessed the 
truth with regard to herself. 

Mrs. Hatton outset Mrs. Ransom, and she said : 

“Yes, the almshouses are very nice, and it is most 
good and kind of her, isn’t it? But don’t you get the 
least little bit — the least little bit in the world — tired 
of hearing of them ?” 

Lady Julia smiled indulgently, and Gertrude smiled 
too, for she had just come back from the door, where 
Mrs. Ransom, as she got into her dog-cart, had said : 

“I mustn’t keep you from your aunt. Miss Maxwell, 
lest the primroses spring up and choke her.” 

And when at last the wheels of Mrs. Hatton’s car- 
riage rolled away down the drive. Lady Julia thanked 
goodness that “those two dull women” were fairly 
gone, and wondered “ what put it into their stupid heads 
to call so early ?” 

Other people arrived, and Gertrude was kept talking. 
She was indolent, and she interpreted St. Paul’s counsel 


44 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS, 


about being ‘‘all things to all men” with an elastic free- 
dom that saved her much trouble socially. She was not 
untruthful, in its strictest sense. 

“ But you must never pin me down,” she said to little 
Harwood, who came in at five. “You must never pin 
me down to anything I may say on those afternoons 
when Aunt Julia sits up and receives. It really isn’t 
worth while to argue upon matters of no importance, 
is it?” 

She had given him a cordial welcome, and he brought 
his cup to the open window, where she was sitting half 
in- doors and half out, with a supreme disregard of 
draught. He was beginning to believe that when she 
refused him she had really meant it, and so she was 
prepared to take him back upon that friendly footing 
whence his proposals had dislodged him. The fact that 
he knew France Woodford lent him for the moment a 
fictitious value. There was only one subject upon which 
Miss Maxwell wished to talk, and by speaking of the 
party of the preceding evening she knew that she would 
arrive at the name she desired to hear. 

“ But I didn’t see much of you,” said Harwood. 

“ Whose fault was that ?” asked Miss Maxwell, rais- 
ing her eyebrows. “ You could not tear yourself away 
from the girl at the piano. I watched you.” 

Harwood said that Miss Maxwell knew the answer to 
that, and Miss Maxwell told him that he was prettiest 
when he smiled and was good, and averted an expression 
upon his part of his feelings with regard to herself. 
She was laughing in her sleeve, but what matter ? 

Lady Julia was talking of her unsatisfactory gardener. 
Somebody began to give an account of the sins of some 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


45 


other gardener who had been in the service of a great 
friend who lived somewhere near an uncle in Devon- 
shire — ‘‘a man in whom they had the greatest confi- 
dence, and who sold their fruit, their fiowers, and their 
vegetables.” 

The gardener, the friend, or the uncle? wondered 
Miss Maxwell, who heard the involved sentence. Lady 
Julia did not appear to see much connection between 
the case and her own. 

“ It isn’t dishonesty,” she said ; “ it is orchids and ob- 
stinacy.” 

“But you never can tell about that sort of person,” 
said the visitorj discomfited, and Miss Maxwell looked 
at Harwood and made a little face. 

“ That’s a thorough good chap,” said Harwood, pres- 
ently, as soon as he had got over the impulse to tell 
Miss Maxwell for the twentieth time how more than 
ever he was in love with her — “Woodford, I mean. I 
was talking to him a lot last night — before dinner, and 
when you went into the drawing-room. We want a 
few more men of that build down here. He has never 
been in this part of the world before, so I told him who 
every one was. He asked me about you.” 

Miss Maxwell looked at him quickly. 

“About me? Oh!” — (with a long breath) — “and 
you told him that — that I was wanting in heart and tlie 
affections.” 

Miss Maxwell could look severe. 

“ I didn’t,” said Harwood, indignantly. “ I shouldn’t 
say anything of the sort even — ” 

“ If you thought it. Then it wasn’t you,” said Miss 
Maxwell, and lapsed into silence. 


46 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


“ What wasn’t me 

To this she made no answer. She was running over 
in her mind such people as might have maligned her. 
What did it matter? Harwood and his prettiness melt- 
ed away, and Miss Maxwell saw a man standing by a 
stream in the sunlight and cutting a piece of wood. 

“ Don’t look as if you didn’t see me,” said Harwood, 
in protest. “Is there anything about me to-day that 
promotes absence of mind in those I meet? You are 
the second person to-day who has gone off into a brown 
study, talking to me.” 

Miss Maxwell asked the other person’s name. 

“It was Woodford,” said Harwood. “I saw him 
this afternoon. I had been into Parkhurst, and coming 
back I thought I would cut off a corner by riding 
through the Manor grounds, and I came upon him 
down by the brook.” 

Harwood had the most extraordinary love of detail, 
and, just as every smallest item in his appearance was 
carefully considered, so he would pass nothing over as 
superfluous in telling a story. Miss Maxwell, who so 
often, when the details were more than usually complete, 
told him to “skip all that and come to the point,” 
thought with sudden interest that this trick of elabora- 
tion was not without its uses. 

“ What was he doing ?” 

“ Trying to get something out of the water — a bit of 
bark.” 

“ And did he get it ?” 

Gertrude wondered the question did not strike him 
for its triviality. 

“ Yes, and in that he showed his absence. He said 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


47 


he wanted it to shy for the dogs — you know, Bruce and 
Trap ; Trap has different colored eyes, and Bruce has a 
splash of white on his chest. Well, when he got it he 
forgot all about them, and he carried it down to the 
gate with him (what are you smiling at?), and though 
I was explaining to him how to get over to Harwood, 
I don’t believe he heard a word I was saying.” 

‘‘ That was odd,” said Miss Maxwell, and she left him 
in doubt as to whether her laugh was at his expense or 
Woodford’s. 


CHAPTER VII. 

Geetrude knew that he saw her, though he made no 
sign. She watched the game and waited, knowing well 
that when the contest was at an end he would come to 
her. She did not care whether this was soon or late. 
It was enough for her that he was there. It seemed to 
her just then that speech could bring him no nearer to 
her. A strange happiness possessed her. The very 
day appeared infected with her joy. 

The last stroke told. He caught up his coat and 
put it on. 

I got your piece of wood,” he said, almost at once — 
“your wooden letter that was not a letter. You had 
only written the date.” 

“ A date,” said Gertrude, “ a thing by which to iden- 
tify the bit of bark — that was what you asked. What 
else should I have written ?” 

“A word — a line by which to have cemented our 
compact.” 


48 MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIOXS. 

That was unnecessary,’’ said Gertrude. ‘‘ So it real- 
ly floated down to the Manor !” she added. 

‘‘ I found it at once,” he answered. “ It was on tlie 
outskirts of that floating raft of reeds and sticks which 
I have always thought so untidy, and — which has its 
uses, under the bridge. You wrote the wrong date. 
Did you know that ?” 

Gertrude shook her head. The date she had written 
was that of a day she wished to remember, but she did 
not explain. 

“ Oh !” he said, “ I thought that last game would 
never be over. I thought you would be carried off to 
play on the upper courts.” 

“I should not have gone,” said Gertrude. “You 
were well matched ; besides, I wanted to see Mr. Bra- 
bant lose his temper.” 

“He did, didn’t he?” said Woodford, after a mo- 
ment’s pause. Then he laughed. “ It was foolish of 
him, for we only won by a fluke. He made his own 
partner nervous, and she really plays well.” 

Gertrude looked over to where Brabant was sullenly 
standing. A fragile and fair-haired girl was talking to 
him. She was Miss Kansom, the daughter of the lady 
with the pet almshouses. Gertrude had no very inti- 
mate acquaintance with her, and of late, with a tacit and 
mutual understanding, the two girls had ceased to ex- 
change even the conventional salutations. It was Miss 
Kansom whom Woodford had taken into dinner on the 
night when Gertrude Maxwell flrst saw him, and in the 
course of the next few minutes she made a discovery. 

When Brabant was out of temper he made small ef- 
fort to conceal it. He said to Miss Kansom, with impa- 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


tience, and in a voice lond enough for Gertrude to hear : 
“ What a fuss about a game of tennis, as if it mattered 
whether one won or not !” 

Miss Ransom gave a little laugh and turned away. As 
she passed the two who had been spectators of the scene 
she shot a glance of defiance at one of them. There 
were tears in her eyes. 

Between France and Gertrude there was for a few 
moments an awkward silence. France knew instinctive- 
ly that she had divined who it was that had spoken of 
her disparagingly to him. Gertrude herself had guessed 
Miss Ransom’s secret, and the knowledge of her own 
unwitting share in the play filled her with a sudden un- 
easiness. In this mood, and against her own inclination, 
she met Brabant’s restless eyes. They were fixed upon 
her, and she could not avert her own. The incident 
lasted but a few seconds, but in them Gertrude had 
time to think of those other eyes that had looked a 
woman to death, and Woodford saw her shudder. She 
gave a slight gesture with her hand, and Woodford 
crossed to her other side, and, passing between her and 
Brabrant, broke the spell — call it what you like — that 
had bound her. 

Some small change must have come over her face, for 
Woodford was looking at her curiously, and she was 
grateful to the wife of the member for Parkhurst who 
claimed his attention. It seemed to her that in that 
moment there had been revealed to her something that 
was attractive and terrible. 

Mrs. Hatton’s voice cut in through her thought, and 
by degrees she grasped what was being said. There 
was to be a concert for the Parkhurst Habitation of the 
4 


50 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


Primrose League, and Mrs. Hatton had" heard that Mr. 
Woodford played the banjo and sang bee-youtifully — 
she thus called the word — and would he — might she 
ask him ? 

Woodford explained how modest were his attain- 
ments. 

Plantation songs and that sort of thing.” 

“But that is what we want,” said Mrs. Hatton, run- 
ning up the scale and ending in a high note., “We 
so seldom get anything of the kind down here, do we. 
Miss Maxwell. Wouldn’t it be most good of Mr. Wood- 
ford?” 

When Gertrude expressed assent, France promised at 
once. Mrs. Hatton said that she saw that her concert 
was going to be a success, and jv^nt off to beat up per- 
formers elsewhere. As she moved away Lady Julia 
came up. 

“How d’ye do Mr. Woodford Gertrude I am going 
into Parkhurst now,” she said, in a breath, and without 
even a comma, “ and I shall return for you in an hour 
or so.” 

“ Yery well. Aunt Julia.” 

“ And if you want any tennis you had better go and 
play now for I sha’n’t wait for you when I come back 
and if you’re not ready you must get the Vicarage girls 
to give you a lift home.” 

“Well, we shall see,” said Gertrude; “I don’t like 
being hurried.” 

She understood her aunt thoroughly — down to the 
absence of punctuation in her sentence. It was perfect- 
ly true. Lady Julia did think her niece had been talk- 
ing to this good-looking young man quite long enough. 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


51 


He was a gentleman, slie readily admitted, and he was 
well-mannered and all that, but she had other views for 
Miss Maxwell ; and it was just about this time that the 
name of a certain Wilfrid Graham, of whom more hence- 
forth, began to take a place in her mind and a part in her 
conversation. Lady Julia was preoccupied as Woodford 
led her to her carriage, but if she answered him some- 
what absently, she smiled very sweetly as she drove off. 

Gertrude, meanwhile, forgot Brabant. She went 
down on to the lawn, and she was unresponsive. Her 
moods were uncertain, and her manner varied with 
them. She had a way of repelling the advances of such 
people as bored her — a trick she had learned in London 
— with an efficiency that the girls of the Yicarage tried 
in vain by imitation to attain. 

It seemed quite natural that Woodford should join her 
when he came back. He looked from her to a vacant 
bench under a tree ; and when they were sitting there, 
he talked to her as she had wished he would talk, tell- 
ing her bits of his own life at her bidding, and much of 
the life of the friend that was dead. Sometimes she 
laughed with him, sometimes her heart ached for him. 

The sunlight fell through gaps in the trees in check- 
ered patterns, and laid stress upon the whiteness of her 
dress. Incidentally he saw how perfect it was in every 
smallest detail. He noted, too, the beautiful lines of 
head and throat and bust. She was straight as a young 
tree, and her waist, that was slender without effort, sug- 
gested cruel contrasts as he looked from her to other 
women who passed. He had never before remarked 
that his aunt had none. 

She looked into his eyes, and she thought how differ- 


52 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


ent they were in their steadfastness from the eyes of 
Brabant with their restless passion. She was conscious 
of a sense of security, and she wondered about such 
parts of his life as he did not mention to her. Who had 
loved him, she wondered, and how much, and how had 
it ended? There were men to whom she would have 
put this question, but France Woodford was not one of 
them. To have jested lightly then upon love would 
have been to step upon ground that was not entirely 
new to her. Nor did she suppose, or even wish to 
think, that this ground would have been in any way 
new to him. But for once, and with a sudden tremor 
at her heart, she realized that the game might be played 
in desperate earnest. As this thought struck her, she 
lowered her eyes almost involuntarily. He took advan- 
tage of this to marvel at the delicacy of the texture of 
her skin. With how precise a hand had nature modelled 
the face ! A sunbeam fell now straight as a ray of lime- 
light on to her hair. He had not known how full it was 
of gold — was it of gold, or of copper burnished to its 
utmost power of shining ? 

Still, though Gertrude did not look up, it seemed to 
her that she saw him, so exactly was she conscious of 
his position. He was sitting with his legs crossed, in 
what I think I may call the Du Maurier attitude, and his 
hands were clasped over one knee. He had tilted his 
straw hat down on to his forehead, and she knew that 
he was looking at her from under the brim. She even 
knew the sleeping fire of his pupils dilated in the shade. 

Mrs. Kansoni passed with Mrs. Woodford, and Ger- 
trude caught the word “ almshouse.’^ The element of the 
commonplace loosed her tongue and her eyes, 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


53 


But for that day the intimacy between France and 
Gertrude was to register no higher mark. The irre- 
proachable little Harwood with the Mariner girls from 
the Vicarage in tow joined them, and the conversation 
drifted into channels that were safely navigable. Lady 
Julia’s return found her niece ready to accompany her 
home, but also, by a curious chance, it found her alone 
with young Woodford. She arrived but five minutes 
after the departure of the Mariners’ trap, to order which 
little Harwood had accompanied them, and the fact that 
together the five had made an excursion to the garden 
to eat peaches went for nothing. Gertrude was con- 
scious that an inference on the part of her aunt was 
very obvious. 

She reminded herself presently that she was her own 
mistress, and accountable to no one. 

Lady Julia said nothing to show that she was think- 
ing over the subject, and on the drive home through 
the warm air of the late afternoon her talk rolled easily 
into a good-tempered discussion of her neighbors. It 
is a significant circumstance, however, that twice there 
cropped up the name of Wilfrid Graham. Gertrude 
paid small attention to it; later she heard it with a 
sense of familiarity. 

He is at Cowes.” 

“ Who is at Cowes ?” 

Miss Maxwell was not attending. 

‘‘ Mr. Graham. I heard from Betty St. Pancras this 
morning. She says his yacht — ” 

Gertrude was looking at a field where great patches 
of corn had been laid by a recent storm. 

“ It wasn’t only responsible for blowing the rose down 


54 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


from your window, you see. Did you taste the peaches 
at the Manor ? They put ours to shame.” 

Gertrude was not even conscious of having inter- 
rupted her aunt. She did not know Mr. Graham. He 
was only a man to her. The sight of the battered wheat 
was of far more concern to her than an account of his 
yacht. Lady Julia thought the mention of the peaches 
was a deliberate attempt to change the conversation. 
But she was wrong. Gertrude was only following out 
a natural train of thought suggested by some remarks 
that we remember. 

Lady Julia returned to the charge. 

“ He is heir, you know, to Lord St. Pancras.” 

‘‘Who?” said Gertrude. She had forgotten. 

“Mr. Graham,” said Lady Julia. But she did not 
follow up the subject any further. 

After dinner that night Gertrude bethought her of 
the song which lay rolled up in paper upon the hall 
table, whence she had not yet removed it. She fetched 
it, and, unrolling it as she went, she crossed the room to 
the piano. She tried over the notes, and began to sing 
in a low voice to herself. 

Lady Julia, without looking up from her book, said 
that the air was pretty and suggestive. 

“Where did you find it?” 

“I got it yesterday in the village.” 

“Sing it again,” said her aunt; “I like it; it is very 
simple and unpretentious.” 

Gertrude complied at once. She had a sweet voice, 
though of no great compass or training, and she had the 
good sense to make no professions of inability or shy- 
ness. 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


55 


“The air seems to catch the spirit of the words,” said 
Lady Julia. Still she did not look up. As music, the 
song called for no special attention, nor, indeed, did it 
aspire to any particular merit. 

“That is what I think,” said Gertrude, off her guard. 
“It is suggestive, isn’t it? One thinks of a ranch, and 
— and all that.” 

Lady Julia laid down her book. 

“Eanch!” she said, “Kanch! Where have I been 
hearing something about a ranch lately?” 

She knit her brows. 

“Oh yes, I remember,” she said, after a pause, and 
then she looked at Gertrude in a contemplative sort of 
way that was her habit when she was weighing chances. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

Lady Julia Maxwell had spoken to Mr. Woodford 
about dining at Eastwood, otherwise it is doubtful 
whether she would have run the risk of throwing 
France once more into her niece’s way. She sent out 
invitations for a small dinner-party early the following 
week, and Gertrude heard with satisfaction and her 
quiet smile that Mrs. Woodford had written to accept 
for herself and her nephew. Lady Julia was full of 
plans, as her niece might have suspected from her pre- 
occupied air, had she been at this time observant. But 
Gertrude’s thoughts were otherwise employed. Just 
about this time Lady Julia was surprised to find herself 
commenting upon what she at first supposed to be a 


56 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


fresh and more excellent minuteness of detail in the 
consideration of Gertrude’s dress. It was so much a 
matter of course with her to see her niece carefully 
clothed, whether sturdily for walking or smartly for so- 
cial functions and the like, that there must have been 
some superadded charm to have called for any special 
comment. Presently Lady Julia found that Gertrude 
was wearing nothing that she had not worn before — 
later, that it was her personal beauty that seemed to 
have borrowed a new radiance. Arrived at this conclu- 
sion, Lady Julia sought causes for the effects that had 
impressed themselves upon her. Gertrude observed her 
aunt’s frequent contemplation of her, but it did not 
occur to her to question its motive. She was accus- 
tomed to be looked at, and it in no way disconcerted 
her. She was not vain in a vulgar sense, but she was 
well aware of her good looks. How, indeed, could she 
be otherwise while mirrors remain truthful, though all 
men be liars? 

Lady Julia’s observations had a very real significance. 
Gertrude’s eyes were very light in these summer days. 
They seemed to have gained in size and depth. Her 
color was warmer and more fieeting. Her lips were 
more tender. Her expression was altogether sweeter 
than her aunt ever remembered so to have seen it. 

She watched Gertrude closely. Gertrude was rest- 
less, happy, uncertain. She glided into rooms, looked 
round, and left them. She settled to no definite occu- 
pation. In music only did she seem to find an outlet 
for the joy that was in her. Her piano, which since her 
residence at Eastwood she liad neglected, became dear 
to her. Her fingers, which at school had been sedu- 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


57 


lously exercised, refound their cunning, and things 
that she had played in the old days mechanically took 
a meaning at her hands that before she had never un- 
derstood. 

‘‘How little I know you,” Lady Julia said. 

Gertrude was playing Mendelssohn’s “Fruhlingslied.” 

“In what way?” she asked. 

She looked at her aunt with glowing eyes. Lady 
Julia was silent for a few moments. 

“I have never heard you play as you played that,” 
she said then. “I scarcely even knew that you could 
play well." I studied a great deal as a girl, Gertrude, 
and the school of music that you — what shall T say? — 
affect has always seemed to me somewhat trifling. I 
have thought it a pity when I have heard you wasting 
your time over the light waltzes and gavottes of the 
moment — things that don’t live a year. Why, when 
you have it in you, as I see now that you have, why 
have you frittered away your talent on things that are 
not worthy of it or of you?” 

“It is a question of mood,” said Gertrude. 

She knew herself that she had not the perseverance 
requisite to the true musician. She was too indolent 
for the drudgery of practice. She also knew that the 
lighter school of which her aunt spoke was not without 
charm for her, and she shrank from the education that 
must forever deprive it of its power of pleasing her. 
To higher things she might never attain, then let her 
not cut down the ladder behind her, and be confined to 
a platform whence she could neither rise nor descend. 

But now!— now all laws seemed to have been sus- 
pended for her. She could do — what could she not do? 


58 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


She felt as gods may feel from whom no power is with- 
held. The buoyancy of her spirit upheld her on a sea 
of youth and love. Sometimes she laughed aloud. 
Sometimes she sighed, but the sigh was of happiness. 
She looked at her own face, and she gloried in its in- 
creasing beauty. The world was good and love was 
good and faith was strong. 

And all these things found a reflection in her words and 
her actions, and to Lady Julia the signs that her niece 
evinced of the presence of some one element in her life 
were full of import. Assuredly did she wish Woodford 
well out of the country, back on his ranch, or, further 
still, anywhere, in fact, but within a few miles of East- 
wood. She fully realized, though she would not admit 
it, that she had no authority whatever over Gertrude, 
who might marry the gardener or a chimney-sweep if 
she chose ; but diplomacy can eflect much, and after the 
approaching party Gertrude must see as little of him as 
possible ; and as to that, in the party in question. Lady 
Julia thought that she had a surprise in store for her 
niece. If it seemed likely that Gertrude would defy her, 
then would she herself be wise before the event, and if 
need be she would deal summarily with that one of the 
persons concerned who was not related to her. 

Lady Julia might be anxious, she was still equally in- 
terested. She had, we remember, on the occasion of the 
refusal of Knutsford, admitted the inconsistency of a 
wish that Gertrude could show the presence of some 
feeling. As she saw signs of a fulfilment of her desire, 
she began to argue that a disappointment would be to 
the appreciable gain of her niece’s character. In her 
heart of hearts Lady Julia must have known that this 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


59 


argument was only conceived to allay her anxiety, and 
that the moulding of a character was as nothing in her 
eyes compared to an advantageous marriage. She con- 
tinued to advance it to herself, however. If Miss Max- 
well’s affections were set upon the young man from the 
ranch then was a disappointment imminent, and that 
would be salutary. She talked a good deal of Wilfrid 
Graham. 

What matter — what did anything matter? She had 
seen France twice in three days. She had met him rid- 
ing. She had met him driving. They had talked. That 
was all. That was enough. 

There came after that two days of almost incessant 
rain, and Gertrude’s exuberance vanished. She was rest- 
less as a caged animal. She wandered about the house, 
and was drawn to the windows as the point of the needle 
is drawn to the north. It rained and rained and rained. 
The shrubs and plants grew draggled and battered, the 
roses hung their heads swollen with water. Pools formed 
themselves in the paths, and a long lake skirted the drive. 
In the beds flowers lay beaten down to the wet earth. A 
crop of pebbles sprang from the ground. Sometimes a 
gardener with a sack over his head would run across the 
lawn on his way from one hot-house to another. Ger- 
trude could fancy how he swore as the rain splashed him, 
and as circumstances precluded her own feelings from 
this vent, the presumable fact of his indignant protest 
almost relieved her. The rain fell in steady lines from 
a sky gray and low. A steamy mist covered the hills. 
The light was not strong enough to pierce it, and the 
day seemed robbed of color. Once Gertrude cloaked 
herself, and with stout boots and a large umbrella went 


60 MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 

out to brave the wet. It seemed to her that her appear- 
ance was the signal for a wind to rise. Light things 
flapped wildly in the hall. Cards rose from the tray and 
fluttered to the ground like autumn leaves. It was with 
difficulty that she shut the door behind her. Then as 
she left the porch her clothes were caught and twisted 
round her. She could not hold up her umbrella, and her 
face was lashed with the flerce drops. The streaming 
world without, the broken flowers, the straggling plants 
were more depressing than the grayness within. It did 
not occur to any one till the evening to light flres and 
make an artificial brightness. Gertrude had not gone a 
hundred yards before she was wet through. She stepped 
on the border of turf to avoid a puddle in her path, and 
the spongy sound of her footfall disgusted her. She 
returned to the house. She was silent and melancholy 
for the rest of that day. Lady Julia having once be- 
thought her of a fire revelled in its warmth and comfort, 
and said that it might rain as long as it liked. It liked 
till the evening of the following day. Then a pale 
gleam of sunlight fell warmly from the west. The 
woods were tinged with faintest gold. Birds sang loud- 
ly from the dripping trees. Every leaf glistened in the 
promise of the return of summer. The mist cleared off 
the hills, and they caught a thin radiance ; and the clouds 
disappeared with one consent, and left the sky a tender 
blue. The drops that at the close of the storm had 
fallen singly and at wide intervals no longer fell at all, 
as Gertrude once more went out. What a pleasant 
sound was that of the dripping trees. The smell of 
the earth was a thing to remember. The pools were 
palely aflame. Little ripples that danced with the wan- 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


61 


light skimmed their surfaces. The summer grass was 
green, and all the leaves had washed away their dust. 
How loudly the birds were singing. That, from the 
lilac bush, was the note of a robin. It was sweet, liquid, 
and intermittent. Gertrude’s eyes discovered the singer. 
The twig on which he sat was marked out by his color. 
The light fell directly upon his reds and browns. A 
thrush discoursed his music from some neighboring tree, 
and a linnet was among the shrubs. Sparrows and 
other birds of less gifted throats filled the evening with 
twitterings and chirpings. 

Gertrude’s spirits rose like quicksilver. She walked 
down through the park. Here the pale light had freer 
play. The wet grass glistened like a sheet of ice. The 
wind had fallen, and the breeze carried the damp scent 
of the recent rain. At the bend near the lodge gates 
Gertrude chanced to glance back at the house, and she 
saw that every window was ablaze. The faint yellow in 
the west was now slightly tinged with pink. A rosier 
color lay upon the hills, and the hollows were darkly 
purple. The rooks, with loud cawings and the rustle of 
many fiapping wings, passed overhead from their work 
in the fields to the elms behind the house. Gertrude 
stood and watched them to their homes, and listened to 
the babel of hoarse tongues that reached her as the birds 
attained the trees. A blue smoke, telling of damp wood, 
rose thickly from the chimney of the lodge. From the 
church -tower was struck the quarter after seven. Ger- 
trude had then half an hour. She would walk in the 
direction of the village. The wet road ahead of her 
gleamed like a river. She was gaitered and stoutly shod ; 
she need not pick her steps. The swallows were once 


62 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


more flying Ingfl, and with every minute the west grew 
pinker, and so less wan and sickly. The glass was rising 
steadily — so much Gertrude had learned before she left 
the house — and all the signs of sky and wind and tem- 
perature combined to promise a change. 

Gertrude’s senses seemed alert to note each subtlest 
work of nature, and the smile of the world after its 
tears communicated to her a very real joy. She did 
not try to analyze her feelings. It was enough for her 
that her depression was past. She found herself won- 
dering what “Woodford had done these dismal days. 
Had he felt caged as she herself ? Had he read ? And 
what had he read ? 

A sound smote upon her ear, and she was surprised 
to And that it was the roar of the swollen brook. She 
leaned over the bridge and watched the hurrying water. 
It was muddy and gray, with sometimes a splash of 
white where it had struck an unwonted rock in its 
course, and had bruised itself to foam. She thought 
how a wooden message would be tossed along to-day 
upon that rushing tide, how it would be whirled round 
the bends and danced through the eddying pools. The 
noise of the water drowned other sounds, and a rider, 
whose approach would otherwise have been heralded by 
the dull ring of his horse’s hoofs upon the stony road, 
was close upon her before she suspected his presence. 
He drew rein suddenly. Gertrude looked up and saw 
France Woodford. 

She gave him her hand. 

“I believe we are in the same case,” he said. 

“ In prison, and now free ? I have spent these two 
days in beating myself against the bars. And you ?” 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


63 


‘‘ In the billiard-room at the Sceptre at Parklmrst. I 
was fortunate enough to meet Harwood.” 

Gertrude was conscious of a feeling of disappoint- 
ment. The days had passed more tolerably for him 
than for her. Yet would she not have wished him all 
possible good ? She looked up at him in the wan, yel- 
low light. It was gilding faintly the outline of his ear 
and his hair and the nap of his felt hat. The gray of 
his corduroy breeches against the chestnut of the horse 
pleased Gertrude’s sense of color. His seat in the sad- 
dle had before now met with her critical approbation. 

“Oh, I would like to ride with you, France Wood- 
ford !” she was saying to herself. “ I would like to ride 
with you — away, across country, over the brooks and the 
hedges and ditches to the end of the world, and then — 
die.” 

But aloud she only said : 

“At Eastwood we might have been snowed up for 
all that we saw or heard of any one outside our gates. 
Oh, it was dull ! lonely ! horrid !” 

She caressed his horse with her hand. The move- 
ment took with her an indescribable charm. The pale 
light illumined her. He looked down at her, and as 
he saw her in the superb pride of her youth and her 
beauty, his expression became for a moment tender to 
sadness. He made as if he would have spoken, but he 
did not speak. He gave a short sigh, and set his teeth 
grimly. She was not looking at him, but at the horse’s 
glossy neck, on which her hand rested lovingly. If at 
that moment her eyes had met his, the tide of her fort- 
unes might have been changed ; but they did not. 

“Oh,” she said, “another day of my prison, and I 


64 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


should have died ! I read, I played ; I read again, I 
played again. I tried to go out — I don’t mind bad 
weather — but I was beaten back. Rain I like — soft 
rain that kisses one, or fierce rain that beats upon one’s 
face and stings it. And I like wind, too. I like to be 
buffetted and hustled. But rain and wind together — !” 

‘‘I had to fight my way to Parkhurst,” said France. 

‘‘And I fought the hours in -doors,” said Gertrude, 
smiling, but with her brows knit. “I longed for the 
sight of a human being as one longs sometimes for a 
sight of — ” 

“ Of the sea,” said France. 

“ How did you know ?” 

The church clock struck the half-hour. Only a 
few minutes remained before she must return to the 
house. The sun showed less than a quarter of his disc 
behind the horizon. 

“ Tennyson knew when he wrote ‘ Break !’ ” said 
France. 

Gertrude shivered — “ . . . the touch of a vanished 
hand . . . the sound of a voice that is still . . .” — the 
shadow of the dead friend had fallen between them. 

“ There were days,” said France, slowly, “ when I 
used to read those lines — for comfort, as other people 
read the Bible.” 

The horse pawed the ground. Gertrude looked at 
the woods and saw the last gleam of palest gold leave 
them. They seemed then to change from green to 
brown. 

“ Do I hate the friend or love him ?” said Gertrude 
to herself. “ Does he separate us or bring us together ?” 

The sun was gone, and the sky, that had attained no 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


65 


very brilliant coloring, began rapidly to change. The 
pink melted from the hills, and the yellow of the west 
became paler. At no point did it exceed in tone the 
color of a primrose. 

She touched the hand that held the reins gently. 

“ Look onward,” she said. “ Life is good.” 

Her eyes had a tremulous brightness. — 

‘‘ Life is good,” he answered. 

The horse grew restive, and made a pretence of alarm 
at the turmoil of the brook. 

“ I must go,” said Gertrude. 

“ Oh no,” he said ; “ not yet. Don’t go. Look at 
the brook.” 

“And to look at the brook is to stay,” said Ger- 
trude. They laughed together — heartily, merrily, as if 
just now there had been no thought of the dead. “ I 
have looked,” said Gertrude, “ and yet I must go.” 

But she did not go. 

“ Isn’t it odd she said, and he laughed, and she 
laughed at nothing. 

“ This is what it is to be young,” she said then. 
“ Isn’t it good to be young ? Isn’t life good ? Oh, let 
us pray that there will never come a day when we shall 
not be able to laugh.” 

He sought words to detain her. He dreaded the mo- 
ment when she must go. He would like to gaze at her 
laughing thus forever. She looked an incarnation of 
mirth. She should be painted with vine-leaves in her 
hair and garlands about her arms and bust, and holding 
a golden cup aloft. 

“ You are like Komney’s ‘Lady Hamilton,’ ” he said. 

She shook her head. 

5 


66 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


“ I am like Gertrude Maxwell,” slie said. 

‘‘You are right. Gertrude Maxwell, and Gertrude 
Maxwell only.” 

The clock struck, and she fled. He looked after her 
till she was out of sight. 


CHAPTER IX. 

Here, lest France be thought morbid, and since the 
dead friend of whom mention has so often been made 
has a bearing upon the story of Gertrude, let a few 
words be devoted to Broughton Essex and to his mother. 

Though the season was over, and London in the ac- 
cepted sense was empty, though the grass in the parks 
was burned, and the leaves on the trees showed signs of 
dust and soot having done their fell work, there stayed 
on, perhaps for the first time in her life, a woman who 
in happier days had been wont to follow the fashion. 
This was Mrs. Essex. 

It was a relief to her, indeed, to hear no longer a 
visitor’s knock. She had taken small comfort from the 
sympathy of the smart women who came in leaving 
their laughter in their carriages, breaking off, perhaps, 
in some little tale of scandal, and putting on an expres- 
sion of pain and condolence with a low voice at the 
door, pressing her hand, murmuring all the trite things 
that are commonly addressed to bereavement, speaking 
in conventional phrases that meant nothing, using such 
terms as “ all- wise ruling,” “ better land,” and the like, 
and going away, as she was sure they did go away, with 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


67 


a sense of satisfaction at an unpleasant duty per- 
formed. 

Tears were far from her at such moments. She felt 
hardened, and could answer platitude for platitude; 
and some of her friends, settling themselves comfortably 
in the cushions of their carriages, said they did not be- 
lieve she “ felt it a bit.” 

‘‘What do they want of me? Can’t they leave me 
alone?” was her outcry when she rose up from her ill- 
ness, and her acquaintances called to inquire for her. It 
was only after a time that she had yielded to their im- 
portunity and admitted them, with the result that in 
their presence she cloaked herself with a callousness 
which nothing could pierce. 

In solitude she paid dearly for this. The eyes that 
were dry before others — dry and even hard, shed then 
their quota of tears. She wondered how long she had 
to live, for the future to her was but a time of waiting, 
and the days came and went without joy. 

Her moods alternated with her thoughts. She had no 
fixed belief to give her comfort in her trouble. She 
was a woman who read everything and had no defi- 
nitely-formed opinions. At one time she clung to such 
hopes of a reunion as seemed to be held out by the doc- 
trines of Christianity, and she turned feverishly to her 
Bible and marked passage after passage. There was 
a promise here and here and here. Then, with a hid- 
eous feeling of sickness, she asked herself upon what 
grounds did she suppose her son had fulfilled the con- 
ditions so arbitrarily laid down. 

He was as she knew him — thoughtless, careless, light 
of heart. She had never wished him otherwise. The 


68 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


book which spoke of the promise sj)oke, too, of repent- 
ance, of a broken spirit and contrition. She had not 
lived with her eyes shut, and she did not suppose that 
her son, who had gone through his short life laughing, 
had differed very much from other men. Would she 
have wished him to differ from them ? He was lovable 
in no common degree, he was generous to extravagance ; 
she had never heard an unkind word from his lips, and 
he had not an enemy in the world. Was not that 
enough? Good? Who was good if not her son? It 
was not the goodness of the Bible — then let the Bible 
keep its promises to itself. She would rather think that 
death was the end of all. Bruff was dead, let her die too ! 

Materialism led only to a despair more dogged, and — 
the rest was speculation. She could not think that 
death was the final goal of the soul, and, unlike most 
people, she was not able to leave the matter unsettled. 
It was a question for which she must find an answer. 
She spent herself in prayers. She had been brought up 
as a Protestant, and in a narrow school. She remem- 
bered that she had been taught that to pray for the 
dead was futile. She was driven back to rebellion. 
She read more books than before. The word ‘‘ saved ” 
became loathsome to her — a word without a meaning:. 
If Bruff was not saved ” then neither did she wish to 
be. What was “ saved ?” 

It was in this mood that she received her son’s friend 
on the day of his visit to her. His presence brought 
her the first comfort she had experienced. France 
could only tell her with tears in his own eyes of the 
last moments of the friend he had loved. Broughton 
had no fear of death. He sent many messages to his 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFEECTIONS. 69 

mother. He had had no strong religious convictions in 
his short and merry life, but in his death he had no 
doubts to frighten him. He died quite happy, he sent 
word, only wishing that he could have seen her again. 
He was too ill at the time greatly to wish to live. Wood- 
ford was the bearer of his last letter. It was written 
faintly and in a straggling hand not many minutes be- 
fore the end. 

‘‘I was sitting beside him, and I thought he was 
asleep. He was lying with his eyes closed and I was 
looking at him, and — my God ! — I was wondering what 
I should do without him. He had been weaker all day. 
The doctor told me he did not expect to see him alive 
again. I went through the darkest hour of my life — ” 

Woodford broke off. Mrs. Essex’s face was buried in 
her arms upon the table. Her form shook. France re- 
covered himself. 

“ He opened his eyes and looked at me, and he put 
out his hand. And I couldn’t tell him, but he knew. 
He spoke of you then, and he said he would like to 
write to you. I asked him if I should write for him, 
but Ife wouldn’t have that. He made me lift him up 
and give him a pencil and paper, and he wrote that. He 
asked me to give it to you myself after — after — when- 
ever I saw you. I don’t think he had finished it when 
the pencil fell, and when I got it for him again he 
couldn’t hold it. Then I sat down beside him on the 
bed with my arms round him, and he talked sometimes. 
He told me what you had been to him — I wonder wheth- 
er you know how much he loved you ; and — and we had 
talked sometimes of religion. I don’t know what he 
believed, but he said then that he knew that it was all 


70 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIOXS. 


right — just that. He didn’t mind dying except for the 
sake of those he left behind. And then I remember 
some of the boys came to the door, and he said good- 
bye to each of tliem, and one of them — it was Flick 
E-obson — broke down and rushed out of the room. 
Then after that they all went and left us alone. I still 
held him up in my arms. He said he could breathe bet- 
ter, and presently he said he was very tired, and he rest- 
ed his head on my shoulder. And so I sat. I thought 
he was asleep. I didn’t move. I heard him sigh very 
gently. When I looked at him he was dead.” 

It was small wonder, perhaps, that Woodford, return- 
ing that night to the Manor after this interview, and 
with his memories of the dead friend fresh in his mind, 
should have been unable to keep his name out of a con- 
versation even with a stranger such as Miss Maxwell had 
then been to him. 

Since the day of his visit to her Mrs. Essex’s mood 
had given place to one less bitter. The knowledge that 
her son had had no fear in death comforted her in a way 
that may have been illogical, but that was nevertheless 
very real. 

The letter France had brought to her was this : 

‘‘My Daeling Mothee, — I wish I could lessen the 
blow my death will be to you, and I wish — oh, I wish — I 
could have seen you again ! I am writing this partly 
because, though you will hear all about me from Wood- 
ford, you will hear nothing of what he has done for me. 
He has been with me night and day. There is no sac- 
rifice of himself that he has not or would not have made 
for my sake. He can never know all that he has been 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


71 


to me. Tell him this. Tell him that but for the sep- 
aration from you . . The straggling sentence was not 
ended. Another was begun : “ Dearest, dearest mother. 
I wish . . . .” 

The letter broke off unfinished. Here the pencil had 
fallen from the dying fingers, and the wish was not ex- 
pressed. Mrs. Essex forever wondered what words they 
were which her son had lacked the strength to write. 
She had written to ask Woodford, and at the same time 
she had enclosed the letter from her son. But he could 
not tell her. In returning the pencilled sheet he wrote : 

“ It was like poor Bruff to write these kind things of 
me. I did nothing for him that he would not have 
done for me. I can only say that he was dearer to me 
than any one in the world, and that no one will ever 
take his place.” 

For her son’s sake Mrs. Essex had always taken in 
Woodford an interest which was now increased tenfold, 
and, since she knew him, her interest in him was for his 
own sake as well. In almost all Bruff’s letters, which 
she read again and again, there was some mention of 
him. 

I wish you could know him,” he wrote in one ; “ I 
wish you could know him, and I know how much 
you would like him. I am sending you some pho- 
tographs he has done. They are wonderfully good, 
and they give you a very fair idea of our surroundings 
— rough, aren’t they ? It is funny that if I were a poor 
devil who had to work here for his living, that I should 
hate it. I love it. But then, I should be content with 
France at the North Pole. . . . You can think of us on 


72 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


most evenings sitting on that log under the big tree in 
the smaller photograph. We sit there and smoke, and 
France sings a bit sometimes to his banjo. He has a 
very sweet voice, and a way of using it that touches one, 
as the more trained singing of a better musician might 
easily fail to do. He would tell you his songs were 
clap-trap. Perhaps there is nothing written for the 
banjo that isn’t, but as he sings them they go straight 
to one’s heart.” 

A score of letters had the same burden. Another 
said: “I am going to bring France home with me this 
year. I almost think we might be back with you for 
Easter, and if things go well, we could stay six months. 
Don’t count on this yet, for there will be a lot to settle 
before we could both leave the ranch at the same time. 
Dear mother, how good it will be to see you again ! . . .” 

But, for Essex, Easter never came. A short letter 
said : “France is down with a fever, and I am very anx- 
ious about him. The doctor says it is some sort of gas- 
tric attack. . . 

One, later, said : “ He is much better. He has pulled 
through wonderfully.” 

Then in the bundle from which Mrs. Essex was read- 
ing came others telling that he was still better; then 
well. After these was the first warning of the shadow 
that was to fall. It scarcely even seemed a warning 
then. It was in Woodford’s writing, to say that Bruff 
was not well, and that, as he did not like to miss a mail, 
he had asked him to write for him. It was nothing 
serious, and Mrs. Essex need not be alarmed. 

The next letter was again in Woodford’s hand. Essex 
was still not well. What had first been supposed to be 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


73 


a chill had developed into a gastric fever like that from 
which Woodford himself had lately recovered. There 
was as yet no cause for alarm. Essex was keeping up 
his strength. He sent his love, and a message telling 
his mother not to be uneasy. 

He might as well have sent a message to the sea, tell- 
ing it to be still. Mrs. Essex remembered the terrible 
days of anxiety that followed. She even made prepara- 
tions to go to him. She booked a passage to America. 
She had just returned from doing so when there was 
handed to her the telegram which said : ‘‘ Broughton 
dangerously ill.” She lived over again the awful hours 
that followed. She had wandered from room to room 
in a frenzy of impatience for the morrow, which was to 
have seen her on the way to him. But before that mor- 
row came the second message, which told her that her 
son was dead. 

Mrs. Essex unlocked a drawer, and took from it a docu- 
ment. She read it through carefully, and more than 
once her eyes filled with tears. It was her will, and it 
left everything she possessed to one to whom the riches 
of this world were now of no account. 

If Lady Julia Maxwell could have known what came 
into Mrs. Essex’s mind then, she would possibly have 
considerably changed her attitude with regard to France 
Woodford. 


CHAPTER X. 


Gertefde accomplished what is known theatrically 
as a quick change, and made her appearance in the 
drawing-room not many minutes after dinner had been 
announced. Her bright eyes and her heightened color 
did not escape Lady Julia, who accounted for both 
when presently, in answer to a question as to whether 
she had seen any one out, Gertrude mentioned that she 
had met Mr. Woodford. It did not seem to her either 
necessary or expedient to evade a reply, and she made 
the statement frankly. 

“ He had no news to tell me,” she said. “ It seems 
to have rained as steadily at Parkhurst as it did here. 
Mrs. Woodford has had a cold — ” 

“Then perhaps she won’t be able to dine here on 
Thursday.” 

“ Oh yes,” said Gertrude ; “ she is better.” 

Lady Julia did not express much gratification at this. 

“ But after all,” she was thinking to herself, “ I sup- 
pose young Woodford would come, anyway, so she may 
just as well be here as not.” 

“ I thought you were going to the village ?” she said, 
aloud. 

“ So I was, but I did not get so far,” said Gertrude. 

“ And yet you had plenty of time,” said her aunt. 

Lady Julia’s occupation seemed to be a drawing of 
inferences. Gertrude was indignant, but she said noth- 
ing. 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


75 


The evening passed without event. Lady Julia, be- 
fore she fell into a doze over her work in front of the 
fire, remarked that her niece was still somewhat restless. 
She went to the piano and played a little, and in running 
from one air into another, her fingers unconsciously 
struck a few notes of the ranch song. Then she left 
the instrument abruptly, and bent over a book. Lady 
Julia watched her as she sat with her elbows upon a 
table and her hands supporting her head. The light 
from a shaded lamp fell upon her hair and tinged her 
soft white draperies with color. Lady Julia could only 
see from her position the oval of the girl’s cheek, but it 
was her impression that she was not reading. A few 
minutes passed, and the book was closed. Gertrude 
went to the window and drew the curtain to look out. 
Lady Julia’s last recollection before she fell asleep was 
that her niece had returned to the piano. When she 
awoke, Gertrude had gone to bed. 

The next day broke clear and bright. The sun 
poured into Gertrude’s room as she dressed. From her 
window she saw that the gray and soaked world of yes- 
terday was a world of warmth and light to-day. The 
hills seemed to smile under the cloudless sky. A hun- 
dred summer scents came up to her from the garden 
below, and once more the air vibrated with the hum of 
insect life. A cow was lowing in a meadow. From 
the stables came the yelping of the dogs and sometimes 
the sound of a bucket on the bricks of the yard. The 
gardeners were busily repairing in the beds the damage 
of the rain. Gertrude heard her aunt’s metallic voice 
calling out some direction. She could not catch the 
words, though she heard the answer : 


76 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


“ I am out of wire, my lady.” 

Something more was said in the metallic tones, prob- 
ably : 

“ Why didn’t you tell me before ?” 

The answer at least fitted some such question : 

‘‘ I meant to, my lady, but what with the rain and 
one thing and another, it slipped my memory.” 

A window was impatiently closed. 

At breakfast Lady Julia said the man was an idiot. 
Later Gertrude turned the incident to her own account. 
She was wishing that she had asked Woodford to bring 
his banjo, when she remembered that her brother Hen- 
ry, who dabbled in everything and stuck to nothing, had 
at one time taken up the banjo. He had left his instru- 
ment at Eastwood on his last visit. After some futile 
search Gertrude found it in its case on the top of the 
wardrobe in the room he had occupied, whither, she 
conclud^ed, it had been relegated by a vigilant house- 
maid. The wire of which the gardener was in need 
would furnish a pretext for a ride into Parkhurst, and 
then she would buy a set of strings. Gertrude need 
not have been at a loss for an excuse. Lady Julia had 
at all times a hundred and one commissions for those 
who went into the town. 

On the road Gertrude met no one. The Vicarage 
girls nodded to her from an upper window of the house 
in the village, whence, like Mrs. Peck of Peckham, they 
watched the comings and goings of parishioners. As 
Gertrude neared the Manor she wondered if France 
was about. She could not have told whether at that 
moment she most wished or feared to meet him. To 
see him was always a dangerous pleasure. It brought 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


77 


in its train an unrest which was at once sweet and pain- 
ful. A man stood at the lodge gate, and Gertrude 
trembled and could have turned to go another way. 
She passed him ; it was not France, and she was chilled 
with disappointment. What did she indeed desire ? 

Then once more her spirits rose. Was there not be- 
fore her the knowledge that he was going to dine at 
Eastwood? She could look forward. She could wait 
without a sight of him — could rest upon her last recol- 
lection of him until she saw him there. In very excess 
of joy she urged her mare from a walk to a trot, from a 
trot to a canter along the soft path at the edge of the 
road. It seemed to her that she had but just begun to 
live. And love was the breath of her life. Oh, the 
summer weather ! and oh, the bright, bright sun ! She 
wished to sing. The exuberance of her spirits commu- 
nicated itself to the mare she rode. She had ridden 
from a child, and horse and rider were in perfect accord. 
The intoxication of the swinging of the canter caused 
the blood to course in her veins. The recent rain had 
cooled the air, and it smote her glowing cheeks freshly ; 
and she wished for November, and a day with the 
hounds. It was only another way of saying, “ I should 
like to ride with you, France Woodford — away, across 
country to the end of the world, and then die !” 

The outskirts of Parkhurst began to dot the country 
with houses, as a heap of grain is skirted with single 
seeds. She steadied her mare to a walk. Her groom, 
red in the face and shining, said, ^‘Praise the Lord!” 
under his breath, and mopped his forehead. It was 
August, and he was not in love. 

The Parkhurst shops presented no very grave temp- 


78 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


tation. It was with a feeling of satisfaction that, hav- 
ing executed the less interesting commissions of her 
aunt, Gertrude tucked a little roll of strings into the 
body of her habit. She proceeded then to the station 
to change the books from the library. 

While she was standing at the book-stall a man came 
out on to the platform to look at the clock. She recog- 
nized Brabant, and she was immediately engrossed in 
the volume she held. She hoped that he had not seen 
her. He disappeared into the booking-office, and Ger- 
trude waited to give him time to go. When five min- 
utes had elapsed she made her selection, and the strap- 
ful of books was taken out to the servant. Following 
the messenger she came upon Brabant at the door. 

He raised his hat and looked at his gloves. 

“ I thought I might put you into the saddle,” he said. 

Gertrude inclined her head. 

“My groom will do that,” she said, coldly. 

She made as if she would pass him. He did not 
move. 

“ Oh,” he said, “ I have something to say to you ! I 
knew, of course, that you saw me. I waited at the risk 
of your displeasure — ” 

He broke off. 

Gertrude was silent. His restless eyes were on hers, 
and she met them with a level glance. She would not 
help him. He looked down at his boots and moved one 
foot along a crack in a board of the fioor. It chanced 
that Gertrude at the book-stall had taken off her glove. 
The white and pink of her hand against her dark habit 
caught his attention. The mark upon her wrist was 
now barely visible ; but he could see it. 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


79 


“I ought to have been horsewhipped for that,’’ he 
said ; “ and I want you to know how sorry I am. I 
have thought of nothing else since. I don’t suppose 
you minded the pain so much as that I should have 
dared to kiss you ! But — you might pity a poor devil, 
Miss Maxwell. You know what you said to me at the 
time. You told me I had no self-control. It is just 
that — and it is my curse. Won’t you let it speak for 
me? Won’t you forgive me? I — don’t pretend to de- 
serve it, but I want you to say you forgive me.” 

He spoke penitently. Gertrude, looking at him, saw 
him suddenly as a great school-boy who had done wrong. 

She gave him her hand. His own closed over it. 
She did not say a word. Something glistened in his 
eyes. 

And when she was turning into Eastwood at tlie 
lodge gates, with a light heart and a vague impression 
that one of her commissions was forgotten, he was lying 
in a field between Parkhurst and his home with his face 
buried in his sleeve. 

Gertrude hastened to dust her brother’s banjo, and to 
adjust the strings. She was thus employed when Lady 
Julia came in from a visit upon parochial matters to the 
Yicarage. 

“ You must hide that before Henry comes here again,” 
she said. “ If he saw it, he might be induced to take it 
up again — and Heaven preserve us from that ! Do you 
remember his eternal break-downs ?” 

It did not occur to her to connect the instrument with 
Woodford. It was associated in her mind with a per- 
petual and inaccurate twanging that was the reverse of 
romantic. 


80 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


“ How badly Henry played it,” she added. 

Gertrude bent over the hoop. She still wore her 
habit, and her figure looked slight and straight and 
trim. Her hands moved deftly in fixing the strings. 
She had been working with a grave face. The smile 
that broke over it was the result, perhaps, of a recollec- 
tion of Henry’s playing. She tightened a peg, running 
her eyes up the neck of the instrument. Then moving 
her left foot a little forward, and watching from under 
her half-drooped eyelids her fingers as they pressed the 
strings, she struck a few chords tentatively, and found 
that her task was done. She remained for a minute or 
so in the same attitude. There was something in it that 
was undefinably graceful. 

Lady Julia, fresh from the Yicarage, was thinking 
that she had only to see other girls to know how infi- 
nitely her niece surpassed them in beauty and charm. 

The sight at this moment of Wilson passing the win- 
dow with his wheelbarrow took Lady Julia’s thoughts 
from Gertrude to gardening. 

“ Oh yes, the wire, Gertrude. What have you done 
with it ?” 

Gertrude looked up from her banjo in dismay. 

“The wire !” she said, blankly ; “I forgot all about it.” 

“I thought that was what you went for!” said Lady 
Julia. 


81 


CHAPTER XL 

Lady Julia came down to the drawing-room button- 
ing her gloves. Gertrude was before her, and was stand- 
ing by the mantel-piece bending over a great bowl of 
roses. Her aunt was struck by the lines into which the 
silk of the trailing gown fell, as the girl half turned at 
her entrance. The pose of her head as she looked over 
her shoulder appealed to Lady Julia’s sense of the beau- 
tiful, and she said with seeming irrelevance that she 
wished there was any one coming to dinner who was 
worth the trouble of entertaining. 

“I shall certainly take you up to town next year, Ger- 
trude, unless anything happens between this and then 
to prevent it.” 

‘‘I am quite satisfied here,” said her niece. 

“A bad sign,” said Lady Julia to herself. 

From time to time she returned to a contemplation 
of the girl. The plainness of her white dress was al- 
most classical. She might have stepped down from the 
pedestal of Galatea. It was a pity, thought Lady Julia, 
that the Pygmalion who was so handsome should be so 
hopelessly ineligible. 

Of the Mariners from the Yicarage, who were the 
first people to arrive, a story that had currency in the 
neighborhood will show that their position in the coun- 
ty was not very strong. Once upon a time a certain 
person, whose name never transpired, was walking 
through the village and met Mr. Mariner, who said, “ I 
6 


82 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


was dining at Eastwood last night. The St. Pancrases 
were there. Lady St. Pancras a most intellectual wom- 
an.” A little farther on, so runs the vulgar tale, the 
person of name undivulged met Mrs. Mariner. “Such 
a pleasant party at Eastwood last night. Lord St. Pan- 
cras — such a charming man.” And yet a little farther 
on the narrator met one of the girls, who said, “I am so 
tired. We didn’t get away from Eastwood last night 
till quite late — yes, a dinner-party. Do you know the 
St. Pancrases ? They were there.” 

This little story may or may not have been true. It 
clung to the Mariners, however, and went into many 
editions. 

Mrs. Mariner was gorgeous in red velvet and a set of 
Aberystwith pebbles, picked up by herself upon the 
beach, and made into a monstrous necklace with pen- 
dants. 

Gertrude met the eye of little Harwood and laughed. 

The room began to fill. At length all but the Wood- 
fords had arrived. They were late, and Gertrude watch- 
ed the door nervously. The sound of a carriage on the 
gravel amid the hum of talk was heard perhaps only by 
herself. She talked absently to Elsie Mariner of Mrs. 
Hatton’s coming concert. Miss Mariner could not make 
up her mind what to sing. What would Gertrude ad- 
vise? Gertrude tried to remember what she was talk- 
ing about. 

The door was opened. A single name was announced. 
An expression that changed from apprehension to dis- 
may came over her face as she saw Mrs. Woodford ad- 
vance alone. Gertrude would not believe her eyes. He 
was in the hall, perhaps, taking oJfi his coat. He must 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


be there — he must. E'othing could have kept him away. 
Why, then, did he not come in? Mrs. Woodford was 
making some long explanation to Lady Julia. It could 
not mean that France was not coming ! 

Mrs. Mariner was still talking, but Gertrude did not 
listen. Lady Julia was saying something that sounded 
like “so sorry” with a cheerfulness that looked like “so 
glad.” 

Dinner was announced. It was true, then, Woodford 
was not coming. Gertrude found herself walking into 
the dining-room beside some one. She could scarcely 
have answered without thought whether it was Har- 
wood or the vicar. A footman was removing the chair 
of the absent guest, and Gertrude could have cried in 
the blankness of her disappointment. It was with 
difficulty that she made her voice sound unconcerned as 
she bent forward to speak across her neighbor to 
Mrs. Woodford. 

“Mr. Woodford was not able to come?” she asked. 

“And through my fault,” said Mrs. Woodford. “I 
had some business that had to be settled with my solic- 
itor at Gaston, and I asked France to see to it for me, so 
he went in this morning by the ten o’clock train from 
Parkhurst, and he was to be back by six to be in time 
to get here. I got a telegram just before I started to 
say there had been an accident at Hawton — that is the 
next station to Gaston on this side — and the line would 
be blocked for four hours at least.” 

“He wasn’t in it,” said Gertrude, quickly — “the acci- 
dent, I mean ?” 

“ Oh no ; it was a goods train that was run into by an 
engine, and he has only the inconvenience of delay.” 


J 


84 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


“ Enough, that,” said Gertrude. 

Harwood began to tell all that he knew of accidents 
— how a friend of his own had been killed in a collision 
somewhere in America, and how he himself had once 
nearly travelled by a train that had been wrecked in 
Lancashire. All this was told with much detail. 

“And,” he said, in conclusion, “I was only prevented 
going in it by meeting a chap I knew, and being led 
into the refreshment -room to have a whisky- and -soda. 
My great argument against temperance has been ever 
since that I owe my life to drink.” 

Gertrude was looking at him, and appeared to be 
listening, but she did not smile. 

The party was hateful to her, and the burden of it 
intolerable. Mrs. Mariner was telling of the finding of 
the Aberystwith pebbles. 

“For trinkets,” she said, “I have no taste. I never 
allow my girls to wear them, but a thing with a history 
— that’s different. I caught a bad cold the day I found 
the first stone, and I remember it by that. I sat, you 
know, in wet feet, though I had always supposed sea- 
water was harmless. Then that one that hangs by the 
clasp I got in a most curious way. Mabel, my younger 
girl, a child at the time, was choking, and her father 
said, ‘Jane, she’s got something in her mouth,’ and so 
she had. She was playing on the beach, and with chil- 
dren everything goes into their mouths. It’s my larg- 
est stone, and has been thought by many persons to be 
unique. Lord St. Pancras, whom I had the gratifica- 
tion of meeting here at dear Lady Julia’s table, said to 
me — ” 

Mrs. Mariner over a title was expansive. 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


85 


Dinner seemed to Gertrude insufferably long. What 
was it to her that the Eastwood cook and the Eastwood 
cellar were locally famous? No one wished to hurry 
but herself. Harwood had turned to Elsie Mariner, 
who sat upon his other side, and Gertrude was glad of a 
few moments’ silence. Silence ! Was there ever such 
a babble ? What an odious dinner-party it was ! 

Then quite suddenly, and with a feeling of indigna- 
tion that sent a color to her face, Gertrude realized that 
she was glad that France was not there. 

With the exception of Harwood and Mrs. Woodford, 
there w^as not a guest who belonged to the better set of 
the neighborhood. Such people as were present were 
those whom it was inevitable that Lady Julia should oc- 
casionally invite, and she always endeavored to ask them 
together, and so get rid of an unpleasant duty. Mrs. 
Woodford was a simple little woman to whom it would 
never occur to remark this, and Harwood, having no 
womenkind, could afford to know every one. But Ger- 
trude set her teeth when she thought that it was to a 
party 'of this sort that Lady Julia had dared to ask 
France Woodford. 

At length the ladies went to the drawing-room. Ger- 
trude devoted herself to Mrs. Woodford. She had got 
over her first anger with her for sending her nephew 
upon the errand which had prevented his coming to 
Eastwood. To every one else Miss Maxwell was dis- 
tant and unresponsive. Lady Julia was genial, and re- 
membered to speak to each of her guests on his or her 
own subject. She talked to one of pictures, to another 
of pigs. In this way she made herself popular. Ger- 
trude had not so happy a memory, or possibly she took 


86 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


less trouble. When she was bored she found it difficult 
to pretend an interest she did not feel. She asked the 
picture fancier about his pigs. 

Her eyes fell on the banjo. Her search for it, her 
ride into Parkhurst for strings for it had gone for noth- 
ing. Was France chafing under the delay that had pre- 
vented his presence to-night? She hoj)ed that he was 
disappointed, as she was disappointed. What was he 
doing? Was he helping to clear the line? He was 
strong. He knew the meaning of work — she could see 
him with his coat off and his shirt-sleeves rolled up, 
giving what aid was in his power. Presently she re- 
membered that there had been no danger to life ; there 
would be no need of his help. 

Harwood was talking to her. 

“ Aren’t you going to sing or play ?” 

“ Ho,” said Gertrude, “ I am not.” 

Then it occurred to her that she had spoken with un- 
necessary severity. He, at least, had done no harm. 

She stepped through the open window into the gar- 
den and the summer night. Harwood followed. The 
shrubs and trees looked dark. A cool breeze was stirring. 
A wedding in Parkhurst had caused the bells to ring. 

“ How plainly one hears,” said Gertrude, gently. 

She held up her hand. 

“ Where does Hawton lie ?” she asked, at the end of a 
silence which the bells on a gust of the breeze broke 
softly. 

He pointed westward. 

“ Somewhere in that direction. A little to the right, 
perhaps, of where I am pointing. I should think Wood- 
ford was swearing a bit.” 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


87 


“ I hope so. Still, I am not sorry he did not come. 
I didn’t realize till to-night the people Aunt Julia had 
asked, or perhaps I would have warned you. Aren’t 
they odious ? I am excepting you, of course, and Mrs. 
Woodford. Hasn’t it been dull? Doesn’t Mrs. Mari- 
ner look dreadful with those enormous pebbles ? Don’t 
you feel that each of them ought to have a little bit of 
paper stuck upon it, with its Latin name and a few 
English particulars? She is like a case in the British 
Museum.” 

“ Oh, Gertrude,” said little Harwood, “ I am so aw- 
fully in love with you !” 

“ What, still ?” said Miss Maxwell. “ I am sorry for 
that, for I must go in-doors. It must be nearly eleven. 
Do you think they will go soon ?” 

She took another look in the direction in which he 
had told her lay the scene of the accident. Then to 
comfort him — he was not quite as tall as she — she laid 
her hand gently on his shoulder. 

“ You’ll live to love another day, Bobby,” she said, 
and he followed her happily into the house. 

Eleven o’clock struck, and people began to move. 
When the last good -nights had been spoken, and the 
door had closed behind the last guest. Lady Julia and 
Gertrude gave simultaneously a sigh of relief. 

“ That’s over for six months,” said Lady Julia, push- 
ing back a chair into its place. “ I must say, Gertrude, 
you didn’t give me much help.” 

Miss Maxwell made no answer. 

Lady Julia was irritable, and pressed her point. 

“ You scarcely talked to any of them,” she said, cross- 
ly. ‘‘ I don’t think it very good manners. You can be 


88 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


pleasant enough among your own smart friends. You 
know as well as I do that these people have to be asked 
as a matter of policy. You don’t suppose I have them 
here for my own pleasure ?” 

‘‘I should scarcely think Mrs. Woodford would ever 
come here again,” said Gertrude. ‘‘ To ask her to meet 
such people was a deliberate insult.” 

“ Indeed !” said Lady Julia. “ And who are the 
Woodfords ?” 

“There were Woodfords of the Manor before the 
Maxwells were heard of,” said Gertrude, quietly. 

And then she regretted her indiscretion. 


CHAPTER XII. 

A DISAGREEABLE evening had ended disagreeably. 
What more fitting conclusion to hours so tediously 
spent? Gertrude’s eyes filled with tears as she gained 
her room and remembered with what different feelings 
she had left it a few hours earlier. She sent her maid 
to bed, and went and stood before her glass. She was 
very pale, and her eyes looked big and tragic. Her hair 
in the shadow had no faintest gleam of gold. She re- 
membered the face that had smiled to her from that 
same glass. Then the room had been bright with 
candles. A solitary pair stood now upon her dressing- 
table, and the gloom was depressing. She went round 
and lit others, and the room grew light as before. Then 
she returned to the contemplation of herself. She 
watched the tears gather in her eyes with a sort of 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


89 


mournful pleasure. How bright those eyes had been 
with expectation ! She remembered the color that now 
had left her cheeks, and she remembered, too, the glad 
throbbing of her heart. She had scarcely known how 
keenly she was looking forward to this party. She had 
been living upon the thought of having France under 
the roof of Eastwood for a whole evening. Again and 
again she lived through those few moments when she 
had experienced a sudden fear, and had fought against 
the conviction that so soon became a certain knowledge, 
that Woodford had not come, and was not coming. 
She remembered how the joy of living had been for 
the time extinguished. . . . Then she thought of the 
moment in which she had realized the sort of party to 
which he had been bidden. She had not seen the list 
— by chance, she had thought, by design, as she now 
knew — and in any case she had been too much ab" 
sorbed to pay any heed to the names, even had she 
known them. He was coming — that was all that mat- 
tered. It was unpardonable of her aunt to have asked 
him in such company. But Gertrude understood its 
meaning. She had even been foolish enough to allow 
Lady Julia to see that she understood. It was some 
time since Miss Maxwell had cried. 

Breakfast the next morning passed stiffly. Lady 
Julia talked, but her niece was preoccupied, and made 
little response. Gertrude went into the garden. The 
recent rain seemed to have taken a month off the age of 
every leaf and blade. The air to-day had that clearness 
that cheats the eye. The hills seemed nearer by several 
miles. The window of a cottage on a slope caught the 
sun, and looked like a monstrous diamond. 


90 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


Lady Julia came out onto the terrace. She shaded 
her eyes with a yellow envelope. 

‘‘ Gertrude, I have just got a telegram from St. Pan- 
eras. He is passing through Parkhurst, and he wants 
to see me on business, so I am off at once. I sha’n’t 
be in to lunch. I shall get something to eat at the 
Sceptre.” 

‘‘ Very well.” 

“ I don’t quite know when I shall be home, for I 
may as well get through some of the visits that I have 
to pay round there.” 

She nodded and went into the house. Ten minutes 
later Gertrude heard the carriage roll away. There had 
been no restraint before, and yet she felt more free. A 
lark was singing overhead. . The dogs — a collie, a re- 
triever, and a terrier — came bounding towards her. 
They must have come out of the stable -yard with the 
carriage. She knelt down and caressed them. For no 
apparent reason her spirits were rising. In the distance 
she heard the sound of hoofs; they passed out of hear- 
ing; presently she heard them again. A cat, with bushy 
tail erect, came down onto the lawn to rub herself 
against Gertrude’s skirts, and to affect to the dogs an 
enmity she did not feel. Gertrude began to pick some 
flowers ; the animals, canine and feline, following her 
from bed to bed. And as she plucked heliotrope and 
mignonette and verbena she fell to wondering as to the 
nature of her aunt’s business with her quondam guar- 
dian. Thank goodness she was of age now, and could 
do as she liked ! There had been a time when it had 
been necessary to consult Lord St. Pancras upon all that 
concerned her. She did him the justice to admit that 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


91 


he had never opposed her seriously. Afterwards it 
struck her as curious that, at this moment, she should 
have thought of the time when she had been his ward. 
It was almost as if she had divined that her aunt’s busi- 
ness with him affected herself. Again Gertrude heard 
the sound of hoofs. It was nearer now, and seemed to 
take its place permanently among the pleasant noises 
of the summer day. It came nearer still. A horse was 
coming up the drive. 

A sudden conviction sent Gertrude flying into the 
house. She heard the butler saying that Lady Julia 
was not at home. She crossed the hall and saw France 
Woodford. His horse moved restlessly on the gravel 
while he bent to speak to Parker. 

Gertrude went out on the steps. 

‘‘ Aunt Julia is out,” she said ; “ but do come in. 
Didn’t you pass her ? She has driven into Parkhust.” 

“I came round by Harwood, and so I suppose I 
missed her.” 

Gertrude was patting his horse, and the animal sought 
provender in the bunch of flowers she was holding. 

“Do come in,” said Gertrude; “they will take your 
horse round to the stables. I want to hear all about the 
accident.” 

Woodford dismounted, and a groom appeared in 
answer to the butler’s summons. 

She led the way into the garden. 

“ I came over to apologize about last night. I didn’t 
get home till half -past nine. I never was so disap- 
pointed about anything. I can only hope that the re- 
cording angel was not about with his note-book when I 
was told it would be four or five hours before the line 


92 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


could be cleared. Otherwise, he must have jotted down 
a page or two of my idle words.” 

Gertrude smiled. 

“ What did you do ?” 

“ I tried to walk off my annoyance — it was more than 
annoyance. I chafed at the delay, even when I knew 
that it was inevitable.” 

“ That was not philosophical.” 

“ It did not seem a time for philosophy. I had been 
looking forward to last night for days.” 

“ Had you ?” 

Gertrude’s tone expressed a good deal. She stopped 
to pick a rose. She failed to break the stalk, and he 
came to her assistance. Bending over it their heads 
were close together. 

“’You know that I had,” he said. 

There seemed a pulse in the summer air. A broken 
sunlight fell through the gaps in a tree upon his coat, 
and a bee rested for a moment upon his shoulder, and 
thence alighted on the flower which was passing from 
his hands to hers. She gently shook the insect off 
the petals. 

“ I hoped you were going to give me that,” he said, as 
he watched her put the rose into the body of her dress. 

“ Not this one,” she answered, with a smile. “ Lend 
me your knife.” 

She returned to the tree whence he had plucked the 
rose she wore. She looked for an opening bud, and 
chose the best she saw. But he stayed her hand. 

“ Not that one,” he said. 

“Which, then?” 

“ There is one I like better.” 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


93 


He watched her as she sought his choice. She found 
it almost at once in a blossom twin to that he had 
picked for her. The roses had grown upon a fork 
branching off one stem. 

‘‘ This?” 

He nodded in silence, and looked on as she cut the 
stalk, and with it, by accident, the leaf that belonged 
to the flower. A wheelbarrow stood near, and she sat 
down upon the handles and laid the rose and the de- 
tached leaf upon her lap, looking about her for some- 
thing with which to tie the one to the other. Hothing 
at hand suggested itself to her, and so, telling him to 
wait, she left him and disappeared through a window 
into the house. She returned with a thread of yellow 
silk, and as she came she bound the leaf to the bud. 

With a misgiving, as he took the flower from her 
hand, Gertrude heard the clock on the stable ring out 
the first interval of its tune. He heard it too. 

“ The quarter after what ? — twelve ?” 

He looked at his watch. 

“ One I” he cried, in dismay ; “ I must go.” 

For a moment Gertrude hesitated. Then she remem- 
bered that she was sufficiently advanced to defy the 
petty proprieties. 

“Will you stay to lunch ?” 

“ Do you mean it ?” 

“ It would be a charity; I am all alone.” 

It could scarcely be expected of him to refuse, and 
he did not. Half an hour later France Woodford and 
Gertrude were sitting Ute-'a-tete in the dining-room. 
They lingered over their enjoyment. Except under 
different circumstances it could never occur again. The 


94 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


knowledge of this gave point to their pleasure. The 
scented air came in through the open windows. The 
light falling on the decanters threw stains of red and 
amber on the white of the cloth. How neatly Woodford 
carved ! How light and infectious was his laugh ! He 
was thinking that he was amply repaid for his disappoint- 
ment of the night before. He said so, and Gertrude 
told him how dull the party had been. He said that he 
should not have found it dull. 

“And I wanted to hear you sing,” she said. 

“ But I don’t profess to sing, except to the banjo.” 

“ I mean to the banjo.” 

“ But I don’t carry it about.” 

“There is one here. My brother used to play. I 
wish you knew Henry. I think you would get on to- 
gether.” 

“ I am sure of it.” 

Another stage was reached. 

France looked round the luxurious room. He must 
understand, he told himself fiercely, that this beautiful 
girl’s kindness to him meant nothing. Gertrude saw 
the look that for a moment passed over his face. It 
was much the same look of dogged sorrow as his face 
had worn when he had spoken of the friend who died. 
But she did not interpret it. He put thought from 
him, and gave himself up to the enjoyment of the mo- 
ment. Gertrude would not think either. 

What need, indeed, to think of the future when the 
present was so sweet ? 

The cold meats had an added flavor, the wines were 
nectar, the day was passing fair. The grim portrait of 
an ancestor caught her eye, and she saw in it a likeness 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


95 


she could not trace. Parker, amused but discreet, came 
up to know whether he should bring coffee to the din- 
ing-room or the terrace. 

“The terrace,” said Miss Maxwell, and thither she 
presently led the way. Woodford noted the grace of 
her walk. Already she began to think of the blank 
there would be when he was gone. The recollection 
that presently this unconventional visit of his must be 
ended weighed upon her as the knowledge of impend- 
ing calamity. If time would but be stayed! There 
was a drop of bitterness in the cup of her joy — in his a 
drop more bitter still. 

She fetched the banjo presently and put it into his 
hands. She watched him as he skilfully tuned the 
strings. His fingers were pliant, his ear was very true. 
He played softly a few break-downs of the usual order, 
and then he began to sing. Gertrude stayed the move- 
ment of her rocking-chair, and lay back with her eyes 
upon his face. He had a sweet voice, and Gertrude ex- 
perienced what Essex had felt when he said of France’s 
singing that it went straight to the heart. He sang the 
“ Suwanee Eiver ” and then “ Dirch Doe.” The senti- 
ment might be cheap— he laughed and said so presently 
— but Gertrude would not analyze her feelings. The 
breeze came gently round the corner of the house, and 
the rose-leaves stirred. A squirrel ran across the lawn. 
A sheep-bell tinkled in the distance. A pleasant smell 
of burning wood told of a bonfire somewhere near. 

“ Do you know the ‘ Song of a Kanch V ” Gertrude 
asked, after a pause. 

France did not answer for a moment. When he 
spoke it was in a tone that she had heard before. 


96 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


“ Yes ; I used to sing it. I don’t know that I could 
now.” 

“ Why not ?” 

“ It was Bruff’s song.” 

Something like a pang of jealousy shot through Ger- 
trude’s heart. It seemed to her then that between her- 
self and France must always stand the shadow of the 
dead friend. The wish was strong on her to try her 
power. 

“ I want to hear you sing it.” 

“ I would rather not.” 

Gertrude persisted. 

“ Because—” 

“Because it is sacred to Bruff. It was his song. 
Don’t ask me. I would rather not.” 

“I have asked you,” said Gertrude; “I will not 
again.” 

She looked over towards the hills. They seemed 
gilded in the strong sunlight. France glanced at her, 
and could read nothing from her expression. He fol- 
lowed the direction of her eyes. His fingers moved 
softly on the strings : 

“ ‘ Out in the west the shadows are falling, 

The red red sun sets the prairie aflame.’” 

Gertrude turned to him. Her eyes seemed to have 
absorbed some of the light from the hills. 

“Don’t sing it,” she said; “please don’t. It was 
horrid of me to ask you, and — I am sorry.” 

France struck a few chords, and under his fingers 
the air changed to another. 

“It is foolish of me,” he said, slowly, “but I think 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


97 


you would understand if you knew the associations the 
song lias for me. It was a favorite song of, his.” 

After a pause France added : 

“ He made me sing it to him the day he died.” 

“ Oh, I am sorry,” said Gertrude ; ‘‘lam sorry.” 

“ So you see,” said France, “ that it is sentiment, and 
sentiment is always foolish.” 

“ It isn’t,” said Gertrude ; “ oh, it was horrible of me, 
and indeed I am sorry. What can I say ? I feel as if 
I had wounded you — it was like wrenching a broken 
arm — ” 

She seemed to be speaking more to herself than to 
him, when she added : 

“ It was not fair to myself either. I don’t think of 
him as between you and every other friend. I think 
he will be first with you always, but he — is dead, and 
one could grudge him nothing of your thought of him. 
It must be dreadful to die. Don’t judge me by what I 
said. It was not like me. I think of him as a friend, 
too— I told you long ago that I felt as if I had known 
him. It was horrible of me to hurt you — horrible to 
him, and he is not here.” 

Gertrude spoke very quickly. A color had risen to 
her face, and her eyes had travelled once more to the 
golden hills. She did not look at him. Her hands 
were clasped in her lap. Woodford’s fingers had fallen 
from the strings. The banjo lay across his knees, and 
he bent forward over it and watched her face. He did 
not follow all that she said. The first few sentences 
were not for him, and the others he did not fully under- 
stand. When at length she turned to him, her eyes 
were full of tears. 

7 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


“ Y ou have done nothing to be sorry for,” he said, 
quickly ; ‘‘ on the contrary, yon have been awfully kind 
to me — too kind, perhaps, for my happiness.” 

His tone fell almost to a whisper. So still were the 
pair on the terrace then, that a chaffinch alighted on 
the path almost at their feet. The shadow of the house 
spread like a stain on the gravel. The stable clock 
played its full tune and struck four. A sound of wheels 
on the drive was unheeded. 

It was not till Lady Julia’s metallic voice made itself 
heard in the hall that Gertrude realized that the pleas- 
ant hours were over. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

Gerteude lay awake long that night thinking of the 
events of the day. It was a day to mark and to re- 
member. What if she had not heard his horse’s hoofs ? 
Lady Julia had been out ; would he have asked for her- 
self ? This thought presented two others that were for 
a time disquieting. If not, either he did not care to 
see her (a theory quickly dispelled), or else he was con- 
ventional, in which case he must have been surprised 
at receiving an invitation to lunch with her alone. She 
tried to remember whether he had seemed shocked. 
But with all a woman’s power of self-torture upon a 
trivial point, Gertrude could not construe his demeanor 
in that light. On the contrary, he had accepted with 
alacrity. He had understood her, and she had not fallen 
in his estimation. She had not bought those glad hours 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


99 


at so dear a cost. Her curtains were not closed, and 
from her bed she could see the sky. A crescent moon 
hung low in the heavens, bright as a silver sickle. The 
stars were lavish in their number. The night throbbed 
with their twinkling. Gertrude, lying broad awake, with 
wide eyes that borrowed of their brightness^ seemed to 
be feeling the pulse of heaven. 

She could not sleep, nor did she wish it. She rose 
and threw on a light wrapper. Her hair fell heavily on 
her shoulders, and a mirror as she passed it showed her 
eyes gleaming in the dusk. Her heart throbbed like 
the stars. Was Woodford sleeping, or was his rest 
disturbed with as glad a pain as her own? Was she 
most glad or most sad ? She could not tell. 

She went to the window and threw it open. She 
breathed in deeply the scents of field and flower. A 
bat flapped by. A giant moth fanned her burning face 
as it fluttered softly past her. The air played gently 
with her hair, and to her hot lips it was as a draught 
of spring -water. A cobweb, detached, floated slowly 
downward, and, catching the moonlight, shone like a 
thread of silk. A white owl flew out from the belfry 
behind the elms. What silence brooded over the sum- 
mer night ! — silence that, if you listened, you found to 
be not silence at all, but a thing made up of rustlings 
and tiny noises innumerable — a dew-drop falling from a 
leaf, insects droning, a twig cracking under the weight 
of a roosting bird, a breeze sighing in the wood, a dis- 
tant murmur of the brook, a field-mouse busy in the 
darkness, these and a million other sounds gave the 
subtle speech that passed for muteness in the sleeping 
world. Gertrude remembered another night as fair as 


100 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


this. Had Knutsford cared as she cared now ? She 
thought of his letter and of how small a pang it had 
cost her to answer it. Even her aunt had thought her 
heartless. And then she thought of Robin Wakefield, 
the boy with whom she had fancied herself in love. 
What was he doing in India ? He had said he should 
never forget her, and in a week she had been reconciled 
to his absence. After that she thought of Harwood. 
He could not be said to have felt her refusal very 
deeply, and she passed on to Brabant and remembered 
his restless eyes. Did he, too^ care as she now cared ? 
Would it not be but just that she should suffer, as 
others through her had suffered? Might it not fairly 
be in store for her that that on which she had set her 
heart would be taken away from her ? 

‘‘Hot France,” she said, half aloud — “oh, not 
France!” 

She sank to her knees and rested her head on the 
white wood of the window-sill. She clasped her hands 
to her forehead. 

“ Oh, my God !” she said, “ don’t take him from me. 
Give him to me — give him to me, and I will serve you 
all the days of my life. I love him — I love him. Oh, 
give him to me — give him to me. I could not spare 
him now. . . .” 

Gertrude’s tears fell fast. A voice seemed with in- 
sistence to whisper of justice and retribution. She 
clasped her hands yet tighter. 

“Hot France,” she said again — “not France. If I 
must suffer for not having suffered yet — though why ? 
why? — if I must, let it be in some other way. Give 
me France. I love him — I loved him the day I saw 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


101 


him, the minute I saw him, I think, and even before 
that, for I heard his voice as I can hear it now, and — oh, 
I love him !” 

Out of the night there came no answer. The moon 
had fallen lower. The tops of the trees in the wood 
showed a tinge of silver. A little gust of the breeze 
brought up a stronger fragrance from the garden. 

“I would rather that he died or I than that we 
should be separated. He did not lose his friend when 
the friend died. The friend is an ever-present memory, 
and is nearer to him than I could be. And the friend 
did not lose him. Oh, I could die — I could die if he 
• would remember me so !” 

“I was horrible about the song,” she thought pres- 
ently, when her vehemence was spent — “horrible, for I 
grudged the friend his memory, and the friend is dead. 
And France gave in — oh, I hope he knew that I was 
sorry. I don’t hate the friend for having been so much 
to him. I like him for France’s sake, and yet I was 
horrible. Oh France, France, France, how happy I am 
and how miserable !” 

She raised her head after a time and looked out of 
the casement. The tears glistened on her face. She 
grew calm as the tranquil night, and presently mar- 
velled at her recent excitement. Again and again she 
lived through the events of the day. She lingered in 
thought over every word he had said to her. She could 
see him now as he had looked when he sat in the 
shadow of the house, while his supple fingers moved on 
the strings of the banjo and he sang. 'VYith a smile she 
remembered what a harsh and terrible instrument the 
banjo could be even in hands dear to her as those of 


102 


MISS MAXWELL’S APFECTIOXS. 


her brother, and she laughed as she thought of the day 
when Lady Julia, driven to the limit of her patience, 
had told him to take it up to the attic or out into the 
garden, if he did not wish her to destroy it with her 
own hands and a pair of strong scissors. Henry was 
good-tempered as he was indolent, and had suffered 
himself to be persuaded to drop the noisy amusement 
altogether. With France there had been no noise. 
The notes he drew from the strings were sweet as those 
of a lute, or else a glamour was thrown over Gertrude’s 
senses. 

How good it had been to see him sitting opposite to 
her at luncheon — better, better far, than if he had been 
instead at the dinner-party of the night before. In 
this. Fate could not have been kinder. He had been 
spared Lady Julia’s intended slight — a slight, however, 
which Gertrude knew had been designed far more for 
her own interpretation than from any wish on her 
aunt’s part to insult Woodford personally. Whatever 
Lady Julia’s ^im may have been, her shot had missed 
fire. 

Something fell in the garden — a cone from a fir. A 
startled bird gave a cry and sought another perch. A 
star shot across the sky. The moon sank lower. 

Gertrude’s heart beat now less loudly. She was 
kneeling still by the window, her arms were on the sill, 
her chin resting on her hands. What a beautiful world 
was that on which she was looking ! The sky was in- • 
finitely high. The distance of the stars and their 
brightness and their incalculable number filled her with 
awe. She wished she knew their names. Another 
point of light sped like a stone from a sling across the 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


103 


blue and dropped behind the hills. Some words that 
France had spoken recurred to her for the thousandth 
time. He had said to her that she was kind to him — 
too kind, perhaps, for his happiness. What did he 
mean ? She heard the low voice in which the words 
were spoken. She remembered the tense silence that 
followed. Neither seemed able to break it. And then? 
— then a clock struck, and a sound of which Gertrude 
had been conscious, though it passed unheeded, had 
preceded the appearance of her aunt. 

The sleeves had fallen back from Gertrude’s arms. 
There was still a tiny mark on her wrist where the lash 
of Brabant’s whip had struck her. To a symbolist the 
cut might have seemed significant in the light of events 
that were to follow. To Gertrude the streak of red 
represented an incident forgiven long since. 

Was the night changing? The breeze that had been 
cool was chill, and Gertrude shivered. She put her 
hand upon her shoulder, and the flesh that was smooth 
as satin to her touch was cold as marble. 

She closed the window, and went back to bed. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

^ Gerteude was not the only person at Eastwood to 
whom sleep came late that August night. 

Lady Julia sought rest and did not find it. The 
moon and the stars brought little peace to her, however, 
for her blinds were down and her curtains drawn, be- 
sides which she was not of the type of person who finds 


104 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


consolation for the worries of humanity in a contempla- 
tion of the beauties of nature. She, too, was thinking 
over the events of the day. 

When she left her niece that morning. Lady Julia 
drove straight to Parkhurst. The weather, as we know, 
was fair. The horses were fresh, and the carriage rolled 
smoothly over the well-kept roads. Mrs. Peck of Peck- 
ham came to the door to make her courtesy and her ob- 
servations. 

‘‘ What was that telegram about as we sent up to the 
house this morning she inquired of her husband. 

“ It was from Lord St. Pancras, telling her to meet 
him at Parkhurst Station where he was passing through.” 

“Well, that’s where she’s gone, then,” said Mrs. Peck, 
satisfied. “That’s her second-best bonnet — that with 
the violets as she’s wearing. Her new one for church 
has roses.” 

Peck professed his interest. 

“ Miss Gertrude don’t marry,” commented his wife, 
presently. “ She seems to hang on somehow, don’t she ? 
— it’s having too many strings to her bow, that’s what 
spoils the broth.” 

Mrs. Peck’s metaphors were as mixed as her biscuits. 
The carriage was out of sight, and she returned to her 
postal and maternal duties. She nursed the baby in the 
intervals between the selling of stamps and the weighing 
of letters. A sound of hoofs brought her again to the 
door. 

“There goes Mr. Woodford,” she announced; then, 
turning her head : “ he’s just come up the lane — Har- 
wood way, and I b’lieve he’s going to Eastwood. He 
wasn’t at the party last night. I heard that from Mrs. 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


105 


Brown’s Ellen as went up to help in the kitchen. I hear 
him and Miss Maxwell’s very thick. If he’d take my 
advice he’d go away before he burns his fingers. He’d 
never do, y’ know. Lady J., she’s looking out for posi- 
tion or rank. She favors Mr. Harwood, I hear; but 
Miss Gertrude ’ll scarcely look at him. Yes, he’s gone 
up towards Eastwood. I s’pose he’s gone to tell ’em 
about the accident. But he might just as well stop away. 
Her ladyship ’d never give her consent, for all he’s so 
good looking. They’ve no money, them Woodfords.” 

The carriage rolled on towards Parkhurst. It is note- 
worthy — as a proof of Mrs. Peck’s power of reading 
character — that Lady Julia’s thoughts ran in the exact 
channels to which the postmistress had been assigning 
them. The Woodfords had pedigree and few acres, and 
France had better go his way. Gertrude’s beauty and 
her attractions were of small use if the wrong men were 
forever to fall in love with her. What a goose the girl 
was not to have accepted Mr. Harwood — a man she could 
have twisted round her little finger! She would then 
have been mistress of one of the most beautiful places 
in the county, and of her husband into the bargain ! 
What more ought a young woman to want ? Gertrude 
was twenty-five. Something must be done. 

As the carriage passed the Manor gates Lady Julia 
looked up the drive. The old house was very pict- 
uresque. Its whites and blacks were dominant in the 
sunlight. A wing had fallen into disrepair, and was 
unoccupied. The establishment was meagre, and Mrs. 
Woodford had to lead a quiet life consistent with her 
limited means. At her death her nephew would inherit 
the place and its impoverished income. It would be 


106 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


cruel to Gertrude to allow her to take a leap in the 
dark. She was accustomed to luxury, and though she 
had money of her own, and young Mr. Woodford — so 
Lady Julia understood — had enough for his wants, still, 
a marriage was out of the question. Lady Julia’s duty 
was clear. 

A look of satisfaction and complacence settled upon 
her face as she lay back in her cushions. Life rolled as 
smoothly for Lady Julia as the wheels of her carriage. 
Everything about her was comfortable and well appoint- 
ed. She knew none of the sordid inconvenience that 
springs from lack of means. She had never known it. 
Gertrude was in a like case. How could she live with- 
out horses and men-servants and maid-servants and pret- 
ty frocks and so on? It would be impossible. Lady 
Julia’s duty was clear. 

The train was not due for five minutes when the sta- 
tion was reached. Lady Julia, having ascertained the 
length of its stop at Parkhurst to be an hour and a half, 
determined that there would be time to lunch in the 
town. Accordingly, she sent the footman down to the 
Sceptre with her orders and waited for the train. When 
she heard it in the distance she went out onto the plat- 
form. 

Lord St. Pancras waved his hand to her from a win- 
dow. 

“Here I am, Julia. How are you? You’re growing 
fat. Shall I get out or will you come in here ? I don’t 
advise it — the heat and dust are intolerable.” 

“I have ordered lunch at the Sceptre. I have the 
carriage outside. You stay here an hour and a half, so 
we need not be hurried.” 


Miss MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


107 


“ Y ou’re a thoughtful woman. Oh, my gout ! Where’s 
my man ? Oh, there you are. James, look after my 
things.” 

The old man limped from the train to the carriage. 

“ Oh, my d d foot ! It came on the day before yes- 

terday, and I am crippled. How’s Gertrude ? Oh-h-h-h — 
Don’t mind me. There, now I’m all right.” 

“ Poor fellow !” said Lady Julia, with compassion. “ I 
know what it is. And Betty — where is Betty ?” 

“ Still at Cowes. I left a week ago, and am on my 
way from the Loudons. The duchess was charmed with 
Wilfrid Graham. She saw a lot of him in town, and if 
you’re not careful she’ll marry him to whatever girl she 
happens to be running.” 

“Careful!” said Lady Julia, “the thing is more in 
your hands than mine. I am waiting for you to ar- 
range something.” 

“ Well, that’s what we’re going to talk about. Is this 
the place ? — looks like a public house.” 

“ My dear St. Pancras, our best hotel 1” 

“ How I have got to get out, haven’t I ? Oh, my foot ! 
Jump out and go in, then you won’t hear me swear — oh, 

d ! Ho, the other arm. There. Oh-h-h. There. 

Thank ye.” 

He hobbled up the steps and into the house. Lady 
Julia with the wine-list asked him what he was allowed 
to drink. 

“ Everything, bless you. I don’t nurse myself. I am 
not going to let my strength run down to please the 
doctors. Am I to sit here ? Oh-h-h.” 

Luncheon was quickly served in the coffee-room, and 
the waiter withdrew. 


108 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


“Well — now?’’ said Lady Julia. “Let us begin at 
the beginning. Has Mr. Graham been told of Ger- 
trude?” 

“He had heard of her — yes. You may trust Lady 
St. Pancras for a match-maker as you would trust your- 
self.” 

“And?” 

“ And he thinks it reasonable that as my heir I should 
wish him to marry.” 

“ So far so good,” said Lady Julia. 

“And that’s just about as far as it does go at present. 
Kemember, Julia, I have no authority with my nephew. 
He has plenty of money, and if he liked he could snap 
his fingers in my face. If he lives he succeeds to my 
earldom. I can’t prevent that. Dear Betty, you know, 
is like Sarah when she laughed — well, not quite ninety, 
perhaps, but still we don’t ^expect a son! Wilfrid is 
then his own master, but I repeat he thinks it reason- 
able that I should wish him to marry, and — he has heard 
of Miss Maxwell.” 

“ Then what do you propose ?” 

“ It is he who must do that,” said the old man, chuck- 
ling. 

Lady Julia was impatient, but she thought it politic 
to smile. 

“ What are his engagements ?” 

“Lord! how should I know? Oh, my foot! He 
may be going up to the Hurlinghams, in Scotland, when 
he leaves Cowes. I know Lady Hurlingham asked him. 
She has a daughter — ” 

“ You are teasing me, St. Pancras. I know Miss Kun- 
ton slightly. Gertrude could afiord to have her as a 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


109 


rival. Don’t make difficulties. I expect plenty with 
Gertrude herself. I am very much afraid she is more 
than half in love with some one at this moment.” 

“Gertrude in love!” said Lord St. Pancras, with 
another chuckle. “ That’s not like Gertrude.” 

“ It isn’t like the girl who used to be your ward, is 
it?” said Lady Julia, “but Gertrude is changing. I am 
not as certain that I know her as I was.” 

“ Who is the man ?” 

“Young Woodford.” 

“Who’s he?” 

“ You remember Mrs. Woodford, at the Manor ? You 
dined there, I think ? He is her nephew. He is, un- 
fortunately, very nice, and a fine, handsome fellow, and 
every one likes him. I like him myself, though I don’t 
suppose he or Gertrude think so. He has been ranch- 
ing somewhere. However, all this is neither here or 
there, and if Gertrude has been so foolish as to — to in- 
terest herself in him, she will have to forget him.” 

“Just so,” said Lord St. Pancras, ironically. “She 
was always amenable, wasn’t she ?” he added. 

“ She was always sensible,” said Lady Julia — “ if one 
took her the right way. If I see no other course, I shall 
take matters into my own hands.” 

“ Which means ?” 

“Ho matter. We mustn’t waste time. Let me give 
you some more chicken. Will Mr. Graham come to 
usr 

“ I think so. I can almost promise for him. I have 
spoken of it.” 

“ And you and Betty ?” 

“ If you like.” 


no 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


“It would look better, as I don’t know the young 
man.” 

Lord St. Pancras laughed. 

“And you will use your influence?” 

“I tell you I have none — really. But you can rest 
assured that I should be as glad if this marriage came 
about as you. I think Gertrude is just the wife for 
him. But look here, Julia, I am no longer her guardian, 
I know ; but I won’t have her heart broken about this 
other man, do you hear? I don’t remember that she 
had a heart of the breakable order, but if she has, we 
mustn’t make her unhappy by our scheming. Time 
was, Julia, when you came to me and told me that you 
wished to die, because they would not let you marry 
poor Charlie Harman. You’ve forgotten all about it 
now ; he never did, poor boy !” 

“ Have I ?” said Lady J ulia ; “ have I ? Poor Charlie ! 
I have not, but I have lived long enough to know who 
was right — my mother or I.” 

‘‘ And Gertrude is to buy wisdom?” 

“ If she is out of it.” 

Soon after this Lady Julia took her cousin back to 
the station. It was satisfactorily arranged that Wilfrid 
Graham was to be brought to Eastwood in September. 
Had there been no such person as France Woodford, it 
might all have been plain sailing. On every side Lady 
Julia had heard of Mr. Graham — his looks, his manner. 
It would not have been too much to hope that Gertrude 
would like him. From what Lord St. Pancras said, Mr. 
Graham himself was not averse to the proposed alliance, 
and all men were attracted to Miss Maxwell. How 
smoothly things might have gone. She must trust to 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


Ill 


the girPs sense. Surely Gertrude would not sacrifice her 
prospects to her heart. The connection proposed for 
her was sufficiently brilliant. As the future Lady St. 
Pancras, she might think herself lucky. What if her 
affections were seriously engaged ? Lady Julia thought 
of her own case, of the tears she had shed, and the void 
that had ached in her heart. Poor Charlie Harman ! 
He went to the devil, and died the year that made her 
a Maxwell. That was thirty -two — thirty -three — no, 
thirty-four years ago. She had outlived her sorrow, and 
she could not think that her life was a failure. Her 
mother had acted wisely, and she would be as wise. 

Judging from precedent, did Gertrude feel deeply? 
Supposing that she had really grown fond of this young 
man from the ranch, would not her disappointment soon 
fade? Graham had everything that Woodford had not, 
as well as everything that he had. If only there had 
been no Woodford ! It was with this last thought up- 
permost in her mind that Lady Julia drove back to 
Eastwood. What wonder that that night she could not 
sleep ? He had been there the greater part of the day 
she learned. She did not question Gertrude, who, in- 
deed, told her frankly of the invitation to lunch. The 
bright eyes and the fleeting color seemed to Lady Julia 
to tell their own story. What wonder that that night 
she could not sleep ? 


CHAPTER XV. 


Neither did Woodford sleep that night. It was 
dawn almost before he went to bed, though he with- 
drew early from the drawing-room. It was not easy to 
be abstracted in the presence of his aunt. She was a 
good and stupid little woman, who, by way of making 
herself agreeable, talked incessantly upon nothing in 
particular, and expected answers. If she said, “ What a 
fine evening !” or “ There’s a hole in that antimacassar,” 
or “ Pussy’s asking for her saucer of milk,” you must 
reply. If you did not at once, she would add a ques- 
tion, “Don’t you think so?” or “Isn’t there?” or “Do 
you see ?” as the case might be. It was wiser to answer 
at once. She told anecdotes, too, which were heralded 
by a trite little observation in this manner: “It is ex- 
traordinary how much luckier some people are than 
others. I remember some years ago — ” and the rest; 
“ In the midst of life we are in death. How true that 
is. I sometimes think we know very little of what is 
before us. When your uncle died — ” and so on. 

France did his best to be attentive, but on this partic- 
ular evening he found it almost impossible. Mrs. Wood- 
ford was more than usually brilliant. She told him all 
that she would have liked to do had she been rich. It 
would be nice to be rich, wouldn’t it ? Though it was 
better to be content, wasn’t it ? And she thought that, 
on the whole, she was not dissatisfied with her lot ; did 
he think that she was ? Perhaps if she had had money, 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


113 


she would have wished for more — there must always be 
a state that was more enviable than another state, eh? 
And why was he so silent? 

France would not say. He would take a walk before 
turning in. Yes, the air would do him good — would 
he take a latch-key? What convenient things they 
were to be sure ! Mrs. W oodford did not know what 
would be done without them. 

France drew a sigh of relief as the door closed be- 
tween him and his aunt. The moon hung behind the 
house, and a deep shadow was on the drive. His cigar 
made a moving -point of fire in the darkness. He 
emerged presently into the light of the stars. What a 
night, he thought, what a night ! The incalculable 
number of the worlds he saw and the unfathomable 
mystery of the heavens filled him with an awful won- 
der. How still was the night ! He heard a sheep-bell 
from a distant field, and as he neared the bridge he 
heard the song of the brook. He went and leaned over 
the wall. Sticks, reeds, and all the flotsam and jetsam 
collected by the stream in its course lay flat as a raft on 
the surface where the grating filtered the water before 
it passed through the little lake in the Manor grounds. 
A whirlpool at the outskirts of the floating scum of 
rubbish told of the current below. France thought of 
his wooden letter. Had he known it, there were scraps 
of stick each charged with a message to himself even 
now rotting in the water. 

He swung himself down from the drive to the bank, 
and walked up-sti’eam. 

The house disappeared behind the trees. The brook 
ran through meadows where willows bent over the water. 

8 


114 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


Cows turned their heads and followed France with 
sleepy eyes. An old horse in a field walked after him 
slowly to the fence which formed a boundary. France 
found gaps or gates in the hedges. The grasses rustled 
as he passed, and field-mice were still till his retreat- 
ing footsteps told them of safety. He took no heed 
of time. His head felt unsteady, and he tried to affix 
a just meaning to the events of the day. The direction 
of his course indicated that of his thoughts. The 
stream led past the outskirts of a wood where the breeze 
sighed among the leaves. A broken branch creaked 
as it gently swung, and in the shadow its shapeless 
darkness was suggestive of a body strung up to the arm 
of a gallows. Murmurings and noises scarcely audible 
came from the recesses of the wood. A glow-worm 
made a spark of fiame upon a tuft of grass. Leaving 
the shadow of the trees, Woodford came to a marshy 
patch of ground. The mud under foot gave outran 
oozing sound where the sun by day had not baked it to 
brick. Little ponds of water refiected the stars. The 
atmosphere over the marsh was damp and chill. There 
was a perceptible change when he left it behind. An 
owl hooted — the same owl, possibly, which Gertrude saw. 
How the square tower of the church rose above the 
trees, and presently the white top of Eastwood showed 
itself. He reached at length the spot where Gertrude 
and he had met, and there he stopped. He remembered 
every word she had said to him, he remembered every 
look she had bestowed upon him. He could see the 
sunlight in her eyes and on her hair, and emphasizing 
the beautiful lines of her figure. He could hear her 
voice and the accent that stamped her breeding — the 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


115 


accent contrasted with which other women’s mode of 
speech seemed vulgar and provincial. Then he thought 
of the afternoon at the Manor. 

The owl was restless, and flew by. Unconsciously 
France left the stream, and before he had realized his 
intention he was in the park. A star shot across the 
sky — one of the stars, perhaps, that Gertrude saw. 
Eastwood was hidden for the time behind the trees; 
then a few more steps brought its white pile into full 
view. France fell back for a moment like a poacher 
or a thief. The minutes passed. IN’o human sound 
broke the stillness. He moved into the shadow and 
entered the garden. There was the rose-tree whence 
Gertrude had cut the flower he wore. There was the 
terrace where they two had sat. The chairs had not 
been moved. The wdcker- table stood in its place, and 
on it something dark. What ? A book, perhaps ; yes, 
he remembered she had held a book. She had forgot- 
ten it. 

Which was her window, he wondered ; that, or that, 
or that ? One was open, and the roses hung heavily be- 
low it. Suddenly his pulses leaped. A movement was 
made in the casement at which he was looking, and a 
white-robed figure rose, possibly from a kneeling post- 
ure. As soon as his eyes grew accustomed to the framed 
picture he decided that the girl was kneeling still. She 
had raised her head from the sill. The face looked very 
white in the starlight, and the eyes were indicated by 
dark shadows. He saw the white arms, too, from which 
the draperies had fallen. Behind was the vague black- 
ness of the room. All was shadowy and uncertain ; but 
he was sure that it was Gertrude. His heart was beating 


116 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


loudly, and he scarcely dared to breathe. He started 
when the cone fell from a neighboring fir, and the bird 
gave its frightened cry. The face at the window turned 
in the direction of the sound. Possibly so it caught a 
fuller light, or it may be that France’s sight was grow- 
ing keener. He thought he saw the shining of Ger- 
trude’s eyes. He would have moved nearer, but he 
feared being seen. How very still she w^as ! She seemed 
to be looking in the direction whence he had come. 
Did she hear the brook? He heard it. It filled him 
once more with memories. 

What were her thoughts ? Some words that she had 
spoken about Bruff and himself recurred to him. He 
remembered the tears that had stood in her eyes when 
she ceased speaking. What did it all mean, he asked 
himself, if not the one great thing that he scarcely dared 
to hope ? . . . 

She moved again. A fear came on him that she was 
going. She must not go ! But she had only changed 
her position. She was looking at the sky. He looked 
up'-too. If possible there seemed more stars than before. 
How near she was to him! He could have spoken 
without raising his voice and she would have heard him. 
That cloudy blackness round her was in part her hair. 
How long had she been there ? If only he had known 
he might have made more haste. He thought of the 
time he had wasted, stopping, as he had sometimes 
stopped, to look at the view or to listen to some louder 
bubble of the brook. 

He was so near to her 1 He scarcely thought that she 
could have been so near to him, although unseen by him, 
without his knowledge. His eyes were on her face. He 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. Ill 

was in the shadow of the trees. There was no magnet- 
ism to draw her eyes to his, or else, all hidden though 
he was, she must have felt his presence. He whispered 
her name below his breath. 

The breeze grew cooler. A cow, from which the calf 
had been taken, lowed mournfully, and woke a distant 
echo in the hills. The grass was wet with dew. Here 
and there a drop of moisture sparkled. That he might 
escape observation France had knelt on one knee under 
a hawthorn -tree, and his position grew cramped. His 
arm was round the slender trunk. His legs ached, but 
he would not move lest he should make a sound. He 
scarcely, indeed, knew his discomfort fully. 

Gertrude,” he said to himself ; Gertrude, Ger- 
trude !” 

Like the stab of a knife there came to him the recol- 
lection of some words that were spoken to him on the 
night when he had first seen her : 

“ If you admire her, let me warn you. Either she will 
not condescend to take the smallest notice of you, or else 
she will set herself to make you miserable. She has 
about as much heart as a statue.” 

If this were true, then was her attitude towards him 
explained. Her kindness to him was but a bait to lure 
him to his destruction. Every look was a net, every word 
a mesh in which to trap him. He would not believe it, 
and he thought of the words she had spoken to him by 
the stream : 

“ Are you going to be warned by what you have been 
told, or are you going to be my friend ?” 

The words made no denial of the implication of an 
enemy. She trusted to his perception to judge her fairly. 


118 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


The lips he had learned to know, and the eyes that 
had met his so steadfastly, could not lie. 

If only he could see more clearly now ; if he did but 
dare to show himself, to breathe her name aloud, and 
tell her of the love that consumed him ! The glamour 
of the summer night robbed his senses of their balance. 

A movement at the window arrested his attention. 
Gertrude had risen to her feet, and he knew that she 
was going. If all the force of his will could have kept 
her at her place, then would she have stayed. He saw 
her more clearly as she stood and took a last look at the 
starlit landscape. Something that she did before she 
closed the window caused him to start to his feet. He 
saw her put her hands to her lips and throw out her 
arms in a gesture of supreme self-abandonment. 

Hot till he stood on the lawn in the full light of stars 
and the moon did he realize that he had left the shelter 
of the trees. For a moment there had come to him a 
wild fancy that she had seen him, that she had read his 
thoughts. His reason told him it was impossible. To 
whatever cause her action might be attributed, it was 
not to a knowledge of his presence. She had believed 
herself alone, and he had been a witness to — what ? 

A clock struck and startled him. His figure cast a 
black shadow on the grass. He must not stay here on 
the open lawn where he might be seen. But he could 
not tear himself away; the vision was so recent, he felt 
it might return. He looked up at the house; the win- 
dows were all dark ; a bat flitted round him. 

His eye fell again on the wicker -chairs and on the 
book that lay upon the table. He walked noiselessly 
to the spot. The cover of the book was wet with 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS, 


119 


dew; the stem of an open rose marked a page. He 
gently raised the volume and the rose fell out. He 
picked it up and held it to his lips. He looked about 
for some other flower to put in its place. Another 
rose lay on the ground — a yellow rose, and that which 
he wished to take was red. He thought that he should 
like to leave some record of his midnight visit. He 
substituted the one for the other. He did not see that 
the rose which she had given to him, and which he had 
been wearing in his coat, was no longer there, and that 
the yellow flower which he left in the book was tied 
with a golden thread. 


CHAPTER XYI. 

A SUNBEAM fell on Gertrude’s face. There was a 
rosy flush upon her cheeks that told of her vigorous 
health. The dazzling white of the bed threw out her 
coloring — the red of her lips, the brown of the even 
lashes, the pink of her small ears, the rich autumn 
tints of her hair. Her breathing was regular, the 
coverlet rising and falling with her bosom. Slie drew 
a deeper breath and moved her position. Then the 
sun shone fully on the white lids. 

She opened her eyes and lay still. 

The room was bright with the early light. The pale 
blue of the walls and the chintzes looked fresh and 
cool. The sun played on the silver and glass of the 
dressing-table, and onto the ceiling were shot prismatic 
reflections. A mirror gave out the rays of a counterfeit 


120 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


sun; a steel buckle vied with it in rivalry. The cut 
stopper of a scent-bottle blazed as with inner fires. An 
imprisoned bee was buzzing round a bd^wl of migno- 
nette. Gertrude’s eyes wandered to the window. 

The curtains were drawn back as she had left them. 
The cloudless night had given place to cloudless day. 
The sky was vividly blue. She could see the green of 
a tree on the lawn, and, above, nothing but the measure- 
less expanse of the heavens. Swallows circled round 
the house. In the garden birds were singing from 
every bush. 

Beside the bed on a little table stood a vase holding 
the rose which France had plucked for her on the pre- 
ceding day. Gertrude’s eyes rested on it, and she took 
it tenderly from the water and breathed in its scent. 
Her lips formed a smile as she looked at it — such a 
smile as told of the soul that had been awakened within 
her. The fears of the night had passed with the dark- 
ness. She was young, she loved, and life was before 
her. And life was beautiful, and beautiful the world ! 

The clock over the stable played its tune and struck 
six. She could not wait till her maid came to call her 
at eight. The water in the bath, which she could see 
from her bed, tempted her as it glistened in the sun- 
light. She rose and threw the windows open. 

Half an hour later, clad in a light cotton dress, that 
gave free play to her lithe form„ and with her hair 
twisted thickly at the back of her head, she descended 
from her room. The servants were astir. Some mats 
lay on the hall table. The drawing-room door stood 
open, and a house-maid was leisurely dusting the furni- 
ture. Parker came out of the dining-room in his shirt- 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


121 


sleeves. He was calling some direction to one of the 
under- servants, and he broke off and stood aside to let 
his young mistress pass. The hall door was fastened 
back, and one of the dogs lay on the mat. It’s tail beat 
upon the floor as Gertrude went by. 

The garden basked in the sunlight. One of the 
gardeners was singing over his work. A blackbird ran 
across the lawn, and a robin stood perched on one of the 
tennis poles. Tiie cat lay curled on a rug in front of 
the dining-room window. The air hummed as ever 
with insect life. Behind the house the woods rose in 
many shades of green, the leaves looking light and 
feathery. Gertrude heard the soft cooing of pigeons 
and the gentle murmur of the brook. She looked at 
her watch. It was not yet seven, and two hours must 
elapse before breakfast. She would have time to climb 
up through the shrubberies to the cool shadows of the 
trees. She returned to the house for a hat. There was 
a pleasant smell in the hall of the coffee that was being 
prepared for the servants, and the fragrance gave an 
edge to her appetite. She would eat something before 
she went out. 

Parker appeared in answer to her ring. 

“Is there any coffee ready?” she asked. 

Parker thought that there was. In any case, it would 
be ready in a few minutes. Then she would have a 
small cup of it and some bread-and-butter — here, on a 
corner of the dining-room table. 

It was not many minutes before the man reappeared 
bearing a tray, on which stood a steaming cup that filled 
the air with its scent, and a roll and some butter. Ho 
elaborate meal had ever seemed more excellent. 


122 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


As Gertrude put down lier empty cup, her eyes fell 
upon a gap in the book-case that faced her. She would 
take a book up into the woods. She would take the 
volume of Tennyson containing “ In Memoriam.” She 
went over and looked along the shelves. The gap that 
marked a missing volume reminded her of where that 
volume was. She had been reading it out upon the ter- 
race, and unless one of the servants had brought it in, it 
must have lain out of doors all night. She found it 
presently where she had left it. The dew had dried 
from the cover, and the binding was a little stained. A 
flower marked a page. She took the book just as it 
was, and put it under her arm. She walked round to 
the back of the house, passing through the stable-yard, 
where a groom was washing a carriage. He paused in 
his work and answered some inquiry of Gertrude’s 
anent her mare. The dogs greeted her with delight. 
A jingling came from the harness-room. 

Gertrude stepped through the little door cut in the 
great gate, and, crossing the road that led round the 
house, she went up through the shrubberies towards 
the woods. At each fresh stage in her ascent she 
stopped to admire the view. The whole landscape 
seemed to smile in the sunlight. The air was again so 
clear that miles were robbed of half their length. Dis- 
tance seemed near. When Gertrude reached the woods 
she could see the red roofs of Parkhurst and the stream 
like a silver thread running through the meadows. A 
few feet higher showed her a glimpse of the wdiites and 
blacks of the gabled Manor. Then Gertrude sat down 
on a fallen trunk. 

Soft mosses covered the ground, and little flowers 


Miss MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 123 

flecked the green with other colors. A bunch of unripe 
nuts hung over her head. A silver birch gleamed 
where the light falling through a thick canopy of leaves 
struck its white bark. A woodpecker tapped a young 
larch. In the branches the birds held a very revel. 
Gertrude listened for the sound of the brook, but from 
her place she could not hear it. A gorgeous fungus 
ranged in orange -colored shelves grew at the foot of an 
old tree. 

Gertrude put down her book beside her. The rose 
still marked the place where, after France left her on 
the preceding afternoon, she had begun and ceased to 
read. 

Was France up and out as she herself? How often 
she thought of him ! She wondered whether the events 
of the day before had robbed his eyes of sleep as they 
had robbed her own ? 

She could smile now at the misgivings of the night. 
Why should he be taken from her? Life is unfair, and 
she had the best of it. We have, or we have not. A 
sorrow is not meted out for every joy. 

Down below in the valley she could see a wagon lum- 
bering along the Parkhurst road. She heard a faint 
rumble of the wheels. How the sun caught a gilded 
vane on the Manor, and it flashed like a golden flame. 

France, France, France, everything said France, and 
Gertrude saw the world with new eyes. She did not 
allow herself to think of th^ future, of Lady Julia, of 
her brother Henry. She knew full well what would be 
the attitude of her relations if there was offered to her 
that which she most desired. Henry was only a couple 
of years her senior, and she did not suppose that there 


124 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


would be any insuperable difficulty in bringing him over 
from the enemy. He would argue with her a little, he 
would bring into requisition such sarcasm as he could 
command, he ^vould be angry, he would tell her that she 
was not doing what she owed to her family, and, finally, 
he would relent. Lady Julia would never relent. That 
would be a pity, of course, but it could not be helped. 
In any case, Gertrude did not intend to let possible dif- 
ficulties trouble her. She opened her book, but she 
found it an effort to fix her attention. A fly alighted 
on the page. The gleaming white of the paper in the 
sun dazzled her eyes. A lady -bird made a moving 
point of red upon the lines she was trying to read. It 
opened its wings and flew away. Its place was imme- 
diately taken by a gnat. Gertrude blew it off, and it 
returned. It was joined by a little white moth, which 
ran to and fro. 

Then the Manor once more arrested her attention ; 
then the light on the hills ; then another wagon on the 
road ; then a little snake that glided away from some- 
where near her feet and startled her. After that the 
church clock struck eight, and she counted the strokes. 
When she returned to her book, she found that the 
breeze w^as playing with the pages, and her place was 
lost. The rose had slipped from the volume, and lay 
upon her dress. She had been looking at it abstractedly 
for some moments, when it seemed to her of a sudden 
that it had changed color. It was a yellow rose by all 
that was wonderful, and the rose that she had left yes- 
terday to mark her page was red. Ked — she was sure 
of it. She remembered where she had plucked it ; it 
had grown on the side of the house. It was after France 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


125 


left that she had been reading, and, the dressing-bell 
ringing, she had looked about for something to keep her 
place. The wall was just behind her, and thence she 
had picked the flower — a red flower, she was certain of 
it. With pondering eyes she continued to gaze at the 
yellow rose. There was something familiar about it ; it 
reminded her of France. Why France? It was faded 
a little, and the petals drooped. What was that silken 
thread that shone round the stem ? 

She knew then. It was the rose she had given to 
him. Then how in the name of all that was extraor- 
dinary did it come into her possession now? She looked 
at it as if by looking she would wring its secret from it. 
The dumbness of the flower seemed to throw her back 
upon herself. It lay on her knee. Its stem was limp, 
and no longer supported the languid head. Had her 
flower changed to his in some hidden way through her 
very thought of him, as the loaves in the lap of St. 
Elizabeth of Hungary changed to roses. She smiled at 
her own bewilderment, and doubted the testimony of 
her eyes. There might have been some misapprehen- 
sion about the color, but the presence of the thread of 
silk that was bound round the leaf and the stalk proved 
beyond doubt that this was Woodford’s very rose. 
Where then was the red rose which she herself had 
placed between the leaves? The mystery baffled her, 
and, like all things unexplained, it made her vaguely 
uncomfortable. Her rose had been returned to her like 
the money to the sacks of Joseph’s brethren. 

Her thoughts wandered back to the starlit night. 
Could it be that he had come back? — had been near to 
her, perhaps, when she had knelt at the window ? A 


126 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


color spread itself over Gertrude’s face as she thought 
on. What meaning, save one, could there be to his mid- 
night visit to Eastwood ? She began to wonder, even, 
whether she had not unconsciously divined his presence 
or his approach. She remembered the suffocating beat- 
ing of her heart, the alertness of every sense. It was 
easy to persuade herself that her inner being had been 
sensible of his nearness, and that only the fetters of her 
body had held back her unquiet spirit from a complete 
knowledge. The thought set her pulses throbbing even 
now. When had he come to her ? Where had he stood 
when she was at the window ? Had he seen her ? The 
moon was in her first quarter, but she gave a certain 
light, and the sky had been ablaze with stars. 

So he had been there ! What wonder that she could 
not sleep, that every nerve had been tense? Had not 
tlie night breathed his name — France? was it not writ- 
ten for her on every leaf and flower ? 

A field that Gertrude could see from her elevated po- 
sition was dotted thickly with black and moving spots. 
The rooks were busy with their search for a morning 
meal. They rose in a dark cloud, once at the approach 
of a sheep-dog, and again when a laborer passed along 
the path. Gertrude heard their distant cawing as each 
time they settled down anew. 

If only the rose could tell its message ! What is your 
secret, little rose ? One by one the events of the night 
ranged themselves before her. She realized again the 
frame of mind in which she had prayed that he might 
not be taken from her. She thought then of the peace 
that had been communicated to her by the tranquillity 
of the heavens. Her memories culminated in a recol- 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


127 


lection that caused her eyes to fall, and the color once 
more to deepen in her cheeks. Had he been there 
when, before closing her window, she had thrown out 
her arms in the direction of the Manor ? 

He had left the rose to tell her of his presence, or 
else it had some subtler meaning. Suddenly, as she 
looked at its fading petals, there came to her a deadly 
fear. It was her own rose that had come back to her — 
the rose which she had given to him. It had been re- 
turned to her. What a hideous thought! She had 
shown him too clearly the thoughts of her heart, and 
this was his answer. 

She tried to laugh at her folly. Some day, perhaps, 
she would tell him these fears of hers, and he would 
laugh too. But why her rose? Why? Any other 
would have told her of his presence. Perhaps he had 
thought this one only would serve to identify him, and 
in any case he had taken one in exchange. But that 
was not the same thing. This rose must have a closer 
association, and yet he had parted with it. 

Gertrude shivered. What an ugly message she had 
read in the dying flower ! She laughed again. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

Afterwaeds Gertrude wondered that she guessed 
nothing from Lady Julia’s manner. It is so easy to be 
wise after the event. At the time, possibl}", the girl 
was too much occupied with her own thoughts to study 
the demeanor of her aunt. 


128 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


A long letter that was written by Lady Julia and de- 
spatched to some neighboring destination by special mes- 
senger attracted no attention upon Gertrude’s part, even 
though happening to disturb her aunt in the writing of 
it. She saw Lady Julia hastily put it out of sight, and 
evince some slight embarrassment. This took place on 
the morning of Gertrude’s early rising and her visit to 
the woods. 

On the following day Lady Julia and Miss Maxwell 
were engaged to lunch with the Hattons, and at the last 
moment Lady Julia developed such a headache that she 
was unable to go, and her niece was fain to set out 
alone. Gertrude was depressed. She had not seen 
France, and she could not shake off the uncomfortable 
feeling which the return of her rose with its supposed 
symbolism had left upon her. At the Hattons’ she 
learned that the concert of the Parkhurst Habitation of 
the Primrose League had been postponed from its date, 
a few days distant, to a fortnight later. Gertrude had 
been counting upon meeting France as a certainty upon 
the evening of the entertainment in question, and the 
alteration of the day was a disappointment to her. 

Mrs. Hatton’s hospitality was of that mistaken kind 
which insists on detaining a guest beyond the limits of 
the accepted invitation. Gertrude yielded to importu- 
nity and remained to tea. She had no particular reason 
for wishing to return home, but during the hours of the 
afternoon she was in a very fever of impatience, which 
good breeding compelled her to conceal, for the moment 
of her departure to arrive. Even when five o’clock 
struck Mrs. Hatton had a hundred reasons why Miss 
Maxwell should stay till six. The mare was being fed, 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


129 


the groom must not be disturbed at his tea, Gertrude 
must see the new tennis-court, and she had not written 
her name in Ethel’s birthday-book, and would not she 
just play over the piece for which she had been put 
down in the programme ? Did Gertrude think it mat- 
tered that the wrong date should remain on the pro- 
grammes? It would be so expensive to have them all 
reprinted. No, Gertrude did not think it mattered at 
all, and now might she ask for the trap ? No. Mrs. 
Hatton really must insist. Would not Gertrude have 
half a cup more? nor a pear? nor some grapes? Well, 
if she really could not stop, of course — 

Then Gertrude made her escape. She turned sharp- 
ly out of the lodge gates and drove fast in the direc- 
tion of Eastwood, urged forward by some force which 
seemed outside herself. Her life might have depended 
upon her reaching home in the shortest possible time. 
The mare set back her ears at the unaccustomed touch 
of the whip, and the groom’s face wore an expression of 
mild surprise. 

“ Most in generally,” he said to himself, “ Miss Max- 
well’s such a steady driver.” 

She did not know what ailed her. Her hands were 
trembling. Hedges, gates, a cottage, the shrubs in a 
plantation, whirled past her as she drove. A flake of 
foam blew back from the animal’s mouth. It made a 
splash of white upon the chestnut flank. It seemed to 
Gertrude a mute protest, which she did not heed. Now 
before going down the hill the Parkhurst road could be 
seen. A solitary horseman disappeared in the distance. 
Once in the park, Gertrude slackened the pace. The 
groom jumped down to open the last gate and hurried 


130 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


on to the steps as his mistress walked the mare up the 
drive. The sight of her home did not steady the girl’s 
nerves. She patted the mare’s head and praised her 
powers. 

The groom’s face still wore an expression of surprise. 
Gertrude found him watching her. 

“ She went well that last two miles, ’m,” he said, 
respectfully. 

Gertrude said, “ Yes, Bates,” and went into the house. 
Even now she was trembling. There awaited her she 
knew not what. She could not have told her reasons, 
but, none the less, she felt that dire news was in store 
for her. She was on the verge of some crisis in her 
life. For her there had come one of those open mo- 
ments when the veil that hides the future seems about 
to be drawn. She tried to laugh as she had tried to laugh 
before, but the gloom engendered by the sense of im- 
pending disaster was too dense to shake off. She leaned 
for a moment against the lintel of the door and closed 
her eyes. Her face had grown deadly pale, and the fe- 
ver of impatience that had urged her forward now left 
her weak and with limbs that refused their office. With 
a deep indrawn breath she opened her eyes. The great 
square hall was empty. There was nothing to inspire 
fear in what was before her. The polished floor shone 
with beeswax where it was not hidden by rugs and skins. 
The pictures looked down from russet walls. She was 
familiar with the suits of armor ; their tenantless shapes 
were no longer grim. 

With a great effort Gertrude regained the mastery 
of herself. She had never been hysterical. She had, 
indeed, the contempt for those who were that comes 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


131 


of an inability to grasp an unknown state. She had 
always been strong, healthy, self-reliant. She was not 
of the morbid order, and her sudden weakness shocked 
her as one is shocked by some symptom that may tell 
of latent disease. A card lay on the hall table. Al- 
most before she read it she knew what would be written 
upon it. Through the mist she saw France Woodford’s 
name, and just below, in pencil, the ominous letters 
‘‘P.P.C.” 

There seemed to come a long pause, during which 
time itself was stayed. Then very slowly Gertrude 
went to the drawing-room. The room was empty. 
The windows to the garden were open wide. Lady 
Julia’s canaries were singing shrilly, and their yellow 
looked crude and vulgar. Tea still stood upon the 
table by the sofa. Two cups had been used, and one 
was full. There was a chair drawn up near that side 
of the table where was the cup the contents of which 
had not been tasted. 

Gertrude looked at all these things inanimate, and 
strove to read their story as she had striven to read 
that of the rose. They told the same tale, she said to 
herself. France was gone — that was the meaning of 
the one. France was gone, and all was at an end — that 
w^as the cruel message of the other. 

Tears rose to Gertrude’s eyes, but did not fall. She 
saw the room mistily. How shrill beyond endurance 
was the singing of the canaries ! She put her hands to 
her ears to shut out the sound. It was maddening. 
She could not think. She went over and pulled down 
the blind of the window near which the cage was stand- 
ing. The comparative gloom subdued the exuberance of 


133 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


the song. Then she returned to her place by the table. 
There on the sofa Lady Julia had sat, and had been gra- 
cious, probably, as Mr. Woodford was leaving the neigh- 
borhood. Here on this low chair France must have 
been sitting. That was his cup, then, the full cup. He 
had not tasted it. Why? To one who could have 
sent the rose’s cruel message this visit of adieu could 
not have been disturbing. A little cake that had once 
been hot lay at the side of the saucer. It was un- 
touched. 

How long was it since his visit ? She remembered 
the glimpse of the solitary horseman on the Parkhurst 
road. That answered her, perhaps. Oh, the restless 
afternoon ! Had she not known, she asked herself — had 
she not known that while she sat chafing at the Hattons’ 
there was happening that which would afiect the whole 
of her life ? Had she not known it when she lashed her 
mare to a greater speed along her homeward road ? 

Why had she not left Hatton at three, as she had in- 
tended ? Then she might have been in time to see him. 
To see him ? Did she wish it ? 

There rose within her a fierce resentment against him 
who was dearer to her than her life. Had she merited 
his rebuke? If she had let him see that she cared for 
him, had he not led her to suppose that he thought of 
her with a like warmth? It was humiliating. How 
hot was her face ! Would that shamed color ever leave 
her cheeks again? Would her head ever be cool any 
more — would her temples cease to throb ? 

She went over to a looking-glass and noted her fiain- 
ing eyes, but she saw that her lip was trembling. She 
knew that but for her pride she could have fiung her- 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


133 


self down beside tlie chair where he had sat and have 
wept such tears as would have come from her very soul. 

A sound on the gravel averted the possible storm. 
The rise and fall of her bosom she could not quite con- 
trol, otherwise she was not noticeably disturbed when 
Lady Julia came in from the garden. 

“ Oh, you have come back, Gertrude ? When ? I 
didn’t hear you. Had you a pleasant party 

“Neither more agreeable nor more dull than I ex- 
pected. You know Mrs. Hatton. We talked of prim- 
roses till they were a good deal more to me than simple 
flowers at the water’s brim.” 

She laughed as if at her recollections. Something in 
her aunt’s manner struck her, and she broke ofl sud- 
denly : 

“Your headache. Aunt Julia! I expected to And 
you lying down. Instead, I And you have been having 
some one to tea.” 

“Mr. Woodford,” said Lady Julia, without looking at 
her niece. 

“ I know. He came to say good-bye.” 

When her aunt looked up she found Gertrude’s eyes 
Axed upon her meditatively. 

“ How did you know ?” 

“ I saw his card in the hall.” 

There was a pause. Lady Julia took up her work 
and worried a skein of silk. 

“And you saw him?” said Gertrude. “You were 
able, I mean ?” 

“ My head was better.” 

“ Where is he going ?” 

“ I really forget,” said Lady Julia ; “I remember ask- 


134 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


ing him. I think he said something about America. 
Hadn’t he a ranch or something ? I am really not cer- 
tain.” 

Lady Julia’s manner had not its normal repose. 
Throughout the interview Gertrude fancied that her 
aunt was fighting some difficulty. She spoke a little 
more hurriedly than was usual to her, and her face was 
fiushed. She had not yet found the end of her silk. 
Gertrude watched the impatience of the shapely hands. 

“You are entangling that, Aunt Julia,” she said, 
quietly. 

The disconcertion of her aunt, which she attributed to 
a wrong cause, served to regain for her her own balance. 
Lady Julia rose hurriedly and put down her work. 

“ The room is stifiing,’^ she said, going over to the 
door to open it and create a draught, “ and I wish you 
would break yourself of your habit of staring, Gertrude. 
You really stare one out of countenance. If you have 
anything to ask, ask it at once. He did not leave any 
message for you, except that I should say that he was 
sorry not to say good-bye to you. He leaves the Manor 
to-morrow. That is all I have to tell you.” 

Lady Julia made a bad exit. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

Gerteude heard of the going of Woodford from 
Harwood. 

It was five o’clock when he rode up to Eastwood. 
Lady Julia was writing letters in the library. Ger- • 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


135 


trude’s restlessness had driven her into the garden, and 
there she received him. Her mood was uncertain. She 
was preoccupied, gloomy, restive by turns. He was 
struck by her pallor and by a curious brightness in her 
eyes. Something of the assertiveness of her health was 
gone. She seemed in a night to have become fragile. 
She laughed sometimes, but without much ring of mirth ; 
and she had a tendency to become absent when she 
talked. She began one or two sentences and broke off. 
Pressed to continue, she allowed that she had forgotten 
what she wished to say. 

Harwood said that he supposed he would never know 
what he had missed. 

“Hever,” said Gertrude. “But I don’t think you 
need be distressed on that score. I don’t suppose it was 
anything of importance. Nothing of importance ever 
happens.” 

“ You don’t look well,” said Harwood. 

“ And hasn’t any one told you that you should never 
tell one that ?” asked Gertrude. “ I have a headache. 
Aunt Julia had it yesterday, and when she had done 
with it she gave it to me. As I had a head, I thought 
I might just as well have a pain in it ; and it would have 
been such a pity to let it go out of the family.” 

By the foolish words she should have been in jest. 
Her tone was not very lively. 

“ Who do you think has just gone away ?” he said, 
presently. 

Gertrude, with a sudden hardening of her lips, thought 
that she could tell. But she did not answer his ques- 
tion. When she spoke it was irrelevantly. 

Clouds were gathering in the sky ; the leaves shivered 


136 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


on the trees ; there were short gusts of wind ; a shutter 
flapped somewhere on the house ; the hills were black 
with shadow. 

“ It will rain to-night,” said Gertrude. I hope it 
will. I wish it would — rain and rain and rain, and make 
a flood and drown us.” 

Harwood laughed. 

“ Are you so hard up for experiences ?” he said. “ 1 
would come in a punt to your window and save you.” 

‘‘You could take Aunt Julia,” said Gertrude; “I 
should stay, I think. Oh, what pitiful nonsense I am 
talking ! What were you saying ?” 

“I was going to tell you that Woodford was gone.” 

A louder gust of wind made the branches creak. 
Above the hedge, which at the foot of the park skirted 
the road, there rose a thick cloud of dust. It was swept 
boisterously along. The sky grew darker ; no birds were 
singing. Between the gusts there was a sullen silence. 
Nature seemed to be waiting. 

Lady Julia came to the window. 

“ There is going to be a storm,” she said. “ You had 
better stay to dinner, Mr. Harwood.” 

“Yes, do,” said Gertrude; “do stay to dinner. I am 
sure you have no engagement. And there is going to 
be a storm, and you will be caught in it if you go now.” 

Harwood had never received so cordial an invitation 
from her before. She had spoken in a low voice, and 
she walked a few steps away from him. He looked 
from her to Lady Julia. 

“ I shall be very glad,” he said. 

Lady Julia nodded. 

“That’s right,” she said. “You would get wet 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


137 


through if you didn’t. I think we shall have thunder, 
myself.” 

She went in through the window. 

I am sure of it,” said Gertrude, feverishly. “ There 
is electricity in the air. I know there is. I feel it. 
See how my hand is trembling. That is why my head 
is aching. That is why I am so restless. That is why 
I look ill. Don’t you know that it is ? Don’t you see 
that I am not myself ? Don’t you feel it ?” 

Harwood said something commonplace about thunder 
clearing the air, and Gertrude laughed. 

It was true that she was trembling. She had grown 
paler in the last few minutes. Her head and her hands 
were hot. Her heart was beating so loudly that she 
wondered that he did not hear it. She looked at him 
and measured his powers. Something in the sight of 
his well-cut clothes, his neatness, his smartness, the small 
curled mustache, the contented expression, reassured her. 
She need not fear to gain from him such information as 
she desired. He was not of the observing kind. She 
remembered how once before he had told her all she 
wished to know without any consciousness of being im- 
pelled. 

“I knew that Mr. Woodford was going,” she said, 
after a pause. “ You probably bring us later news. He 
is gone ?” 

Harwood nodded. 

'‘He went to-day?” 

“Yes — by the 4.50. I went down to see him off. I 
only heard he was going yesterday, when I chanced to 
meet him on the Parkhurst road. By-the-way — yes, he 
said he had been here.” 


138 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


“I believe he came to say good-bye,” said Gertrude. 
“I was at Hatton, and I did not see him. He did not 
stay down here very long, did he ? I suppose he could 
not get up any interest in us. Did he say where he was 
going 

“ London first ; then to some people in Scotland ; and 
then I don’t think he quite knew himself.” 

Gertrude looked at the speaker in surprise. 

“Aunt Julia said he spoke of his ranch,” she said. 

, “Hot yet,” replied Harwood ; “ not yet, at least. He 
told me that he had no definite plans. The whole thing 
seems very sudden. Mrs. Woodford was quite huffy 
about it — said she didn’t know why he couldn’t make 
himself happy at the Manor. He took her very good- 
temperedly, but it was easy to see that he did not like 
being questioned.” 

Gertrude longed to know how he looked, but she 
would not ask. A few minutes later Harwood told her. 

“Wretched,” he said; “altogether out of sorts, and 
in such bad spirits.” 

Gertrude caught her breath — with a sound, perhaps, 
for he turned to her in question. 

“What?” 

“I didn’t speak,” said Gertrude. “You were say- 
ing—” 

“ That he looked so ill— Good God ! Miss Maxwell, 
I am sure you are ill yourself. Won’t you come in ?” 

There was a sudden fiash of lightning. It rent the 
black pile that hung low over the hills. 

“ The storm has come,” said Gertrude. “We had 
better go in-doors. I shall be better in a few minutes. 
Don’t ask me again.” 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


139 


Y ery well,” said Harwood. “ But I wish you would 
take care of yourself.” 

‘‘ I will. I am all right. It is the storm.” 

They walked in silence up to the house. Overhead 
the thunder boomed and clapped and rattled. An echo 
repeated the sounds. Large drops of rain began to fall. 
As the pair reached the windows, a second tongue of 
flame cleft the looming sky. 

Gertrude trembled more. 

“ Oughtn’t you to go and lie down ?” said Harwood, 
doubtfully. He was not sure whether the suggestion 
would not be taken in the light of a disregard of recent 
instructions. 

“ !N^o,” said Gertrude ; “ I am going to stop here and 
watch the lightning. Did you see that flash? I tell 
you, I shall be all right in a few minutes. Don’t look 
at me as if you thought I was going to faint. Oh, what 
a peal of thunder ! How near it is ! Don’t you like 
watching for the lightning — looking where you saw it 
last, and wondering whether it will be now, or now, or 
now ? There it is — what a blinding flash ! One might 
bet on it by one’s watch — for or against the chance of 
a flash before such a minute. Shall we ? No ; it would 
be horrible. I might be struck, or you, and win or lose 
the bet in another world. Can you hear me? The 
thunder is deafening.” 

Harwood was looking at her in surprise. He had 
never seen her in this mood before. In the girl beside 
him, whose eyes were ablaze, and whose face was so 
white, he scarcely recognized the calm and self-reliant 
Miss Maxwell. 

In the room behind them the gloom grew more and 


140 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


more dense. One by one tbe familiar objects offered 
themselves, to be revealed only by the lightning. The 
piano was a dark mass, relieved by a streak of white, 
representing the keys. Deeper shadows were chairs 
and tables. 

“ Look at the rain,” said Gertrude, still in the same 
nervous tone that characterized her speaking on the day 
of which I write — “ look at the rain ; every drop is the 
size of half a crown. How silent you are ! Why don’t 
you talk ?” 

The water ran in little rivers off the gravel. From the 
roof a spout of water poured itself with loud splashing 
onto the stone outside the window. 

“ There must be a nest in the pipe,” said Harwood. 
He could think of nothing else to say. He was, in fact, 
at every moment expecting something to happen. He 
was ready to catch Gertrude if she should fall. He was 
sure that she was going to faint. 

Lady Julia came in from the library. Her manner 
was not normal, either, he thought. 

“ What an awful storm !” she said. “ I couldn’t stay 
by myself any longer. Gertrude, come away from the 
window. It frightens me, your standing there.” 

Gertrude laughed. She would not leave her place. * 
She would not miss what she was seeing for anything. 
She was not in any more danger because she looked on 
at the havoc of the storm than if she sat on a sofa in the 
dark, as her aunt was doing. 

Lady Julia wished to close the shutters and have 
lamps brought in. Gertrude spoke of the ostrich and 
its habits, and laughed again. Her laugh broke into a 
little cry. 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


141 


A more than usually dazzling flash lit up the room 
with a double throb of light. Lady Julia closed her 
eyes. 

“ This is awful !” she said. “ Gertrude, darling, come 
away.” 

“An elm in the park was struck,” said Gertrude. “I 
saw it.” 

Harwood went to the window. 

“ There, on the left of the drive. Look, one side of 
it is stripped ! You will see it in the next flash.” 

He looked in the direction she indicated. The clouds 
obscured the landscape. The hills had disappeared long 
since. The lines of the pelting rain were close and 
even. At the news that the lightning had done damage 
so near home Lady Julia became more alarmed than be- 
fore. She went to the window and tried to draw her 
niece away. 

“ It may be foolish,” she said, “ but I can’t say how 
nervous it makes me, your standing there. Please come 
away — please, Gertrude. There’s another flash! It 
blinds one ! Oh, listen to the thunder ! It was almost 
simultaneous. We are in the very midst of this storm. 
It is awful, awful ! Gertrude, how ill you look ! Aren’t 
you well ?” 

' “ I am quite well,” said Gertrude, impatiently. “ I 
have a headache. I shall be all right when the storm 
is over.” 

“ I feel as if it would never be over,” said Lady Julia. 
“ I am dreadfully frightened, Gertrude. I didn’t know 
I was such a coward. I feel as if this was a judgment 
on me — ” 

“ For what. Aunt Julia?” 


142 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


‘‘ I don’t know. I don’t know what I am saying. 
Did you see that ? Oh, please come away ! Mr. Har- 
wood, do persuade her to come away.” 

“ I don’t suppose there is more danger in the window 
than anywhere else,” began Harwood. 

Gertrude interrupted him. 

“ I won’t stop at the window if it makes Aunt Julia 
unhappy,” she said; “but it seems rather nonsense, 
doesn’t it? If the lightning is looking for me, I dare 
say it will be able to find me, even if I hide my face in 
a cushion on the ottoman.” 

Lady Julia shuddered. 

“ How can you talk so recklessly, Gertrude ?” 

Harwood was smiling complacently in the darkness. 
There was something going on that he did not quite 
understand. Lady Julia might have been conscience- 
stricken from her manner, he was thinking — if there 
had been' anything to be conscience -stricken about. 
Without quite knowing why, he was reminded vaguely 
of Pharaoh and the plagues. 

Later on he was again reminded of the stubborn 
Egyptian when, the storm dying away. Lady Julia re- 
gained her composure. The danger past, she became 
once more the woman of the world. He could have 
imagined her saying, “I will not let the people go.” 
Her attitude changed entirely. She made no further 
■comment upon Gertrude’s evident indisposition. Con- 
trary to the girl’s assertion, with the going of the storm 
she did not revive. Her excitement left her, it is true, 
but her spirits did not return. She seemed plunged in 
a gloom which she took no pains to dispel. She was 
silent, and merely joined in the conversation when 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


143 


politeness made it necessary. Harwood thought of her 
pressing indorsement of the invitation to stay to dinner, 
and contrasted her manner then with her depression 
now. She ate little and refused all wine. She drank 
water thirstily. Her pallor remained, but her eyes no 
longer blazed with any unnatural brightness. 

The rain was falling softly outside on the terrace. 
Its vehemence had given place to a gentle and steady 
downpour. Only a distant rumble of thunder spoke of 
the storm that had raged over Eastwood. 

Lady Julia did not allow the conversation to flag. 
She did not appear to observe her niece’s silence. Har- 
wood could scarcely have told, indeed, whether she saw, 
as he himself saw plainly, that something was amiss. 
He found his eyes wandering often in Gertrude’s direc- 
tion. Soon after ten Harwood rose to go. 

It was a pity that to him, and not to Gertrude, Lady 
Julia’s manner during the storm was suggestive of 
Pharaoh repentant. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

Another day passed, and another, and another, and 
another, but no news came from France. 

Gertrude lay awake at night, and watched for the 
letter -bag in the morning. She was tormented with 
restlessness. Nothing would All the void that served 
her for a heart. When she was in-doors she went from 
room to room. She might have been seeking some- 
thing which she never found. She went out and took 


144 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


long and lonely walks. The summer was hurrying to 
an end. Autumn tints began to fleck the woods with 
red and yellow. When there was wind, leaves fluttered 
down. The world was changed, and changing more. 
It seemed very empty in these days. 

Where was France? At one time Gertrude put all 
thought of him resolutely from her, and her expression 
took a hardness foreign to her face. At another she 
visited every spot that had any association with him. 
She went down to the brook. It ran grayly under a 
leaden sky. She went to the bridge where she had 
met him after the two days’ rain. She could see him 
now as he had looked down at her from his horse. 
Again and again she sat in the chair on the terrace 
and looked at the spot where he had been sitting 
when he sang to her. She thought with tears of the 
incident of the song — the song that belonged to the 
man who died. She went up into the woods behind 
the house to see the roof of the Manor. 

How many were the tears she shed ! When she was 
not hardening her heart against France, she admitted 
frankly to herself that she loved him. She loved him 
still. She would always love him. He was all the 
world to her. He was France. So much had she cared 
for him that she had not concealed her love from him, 
and — he was gone, without even a word, or worse, with 
a conventional message of regret and good-bye. 

She was bewildered by what had happened. A hun- 
dred things were inconsistent with his sudden departure 
and this lasting silence. Words, looks, gestures, had 
told her that she was dear to him. Gertrude thought 
of the thousand and one lives of fiction that were 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


145 


wrecked through some misunderstanding that half a 
dozen words would have set at rest. Everything might 
be explained, she thought, but his silence. The return 
of her rose might not have the dire meaning that she 
attached to it, his going might be unavoidable, but why 
did he not write? 

The night of the concert of the Parkhurst Habitation 
of the Primrose League came and went. Gertrude 
pleaded a cold, and did not attend it. A couple of days 
later she met Mrs. Hatton. 

“ So sorry you couldn’t come,” said the wife of the 
member; ^‘we had such a successful evening. Every- 
thing went off well. Miss Ransom kindly took your 
place, but we missed you very much, and there were 
many inquiries for you. Mr. Woodford’s banjo — ” 

‘‘What had you instead ?” asked Gertrude. 

“Instead?” said Mrs. Hatton. “We had nothing in- 
stead. He played himself.” 

Gertrude was riding. Her grip tightened on the reins. 

“He — played — himself?” she. said, slowly, as if she 
would be convinced of the meaning of the words she 
used. 

“ Came down on purpose,” said Mrs. Hatton, trium- 
phantly. 

The world seemed to go round before Gertrude’s eyes. 
To gain time, she leaned down and patted her mare’s 
neck. 

“It was the success of the evening,” went on Mrs. 
Hatton, presently ; “ and he gave us two encores. What 
a sweet voice he has ! I declare his singing nearly made 
me cry. But perhaps you have never heard him. I 
wish you had been there. You can’t think how much 
10 


146 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


pathos he gets out of some of those little plantation 
songs. And, do you know, we think he is so good look- 
ing r 

Mrs. Hatton spoke with the air of one who has made 
a discovery, and is proud of it. 

Gertrude said nothing. She could find no voice. 

‘‘ And how pleasant he is in a house !” said Mrs. Hat- 
ton, nothing conscious of the storm she raised. “ He is 
one of those people that the more you see the better 
you like. We are enchanted with him. He has charm- 
ing manners. Wasn’t it good of him to come down? 
He wrote to me, you know, to say that he was leaving 
the Manor, and that he would not be able to sing for me 
as he had promised. And I wrote back and implored 
him to come down to us for the night. It is not so very 
far from London. I was so afraid that my concert would 
not turn out well. I had had one or two other disap- 
pointments, you know, and so I asked him to take pity 
on me, and reminded him that a promise is a promise. 
He left us yesterday morning, though we pressed him 
to stay on. We quite miss him. I think he liked be- 
ing with us, and one can’t help liking him. I looked at 
him, and thought to myself, ‘ There are probably lots 
of poor girls unhappy for you, my young man.’ I 
should think he was one of those people who could not 
help being pleasant to whoever he was with.” 

The grammar and construction of Mrs. Hatton’s sen- 
tences were not very brilliant, but her meaning was al- 
ways clear. 

Gertrude winced. 

“ But perhaps you didn’t know him very well,” added 
Mrs. Hatton. 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


147 


Gertrude found her voice. 

“ I don’t think I knew him very well,” she said. 

Mrs. Hatton nodded, and made ready to drive on. 

“ Lady Julia quite well? Yes? That’s right! You 
look rather pale yourself. Miss Maxwell. Your cold, of 
course. So sorry it kept you from my concert. Good- 
bye.” 

Gertrude rode on ; the tears ran to her eyes and rolled 
slowly down her cheeks. 

Her first sensation was one of deadly disappointment 
that she should, of her own accord, have been absent 
from the concert. It was true that she had a cold, but 
not so bad that she could not have gone had she had 
the inclination. Fate was against her. Then she asked 
herself, as before, whether she wished to see him. Her 
wounded pride answered. Ho. Her love, which was her- 
self, cried Yes, yes, yes — a thousand times, yes! Come 
what might, come what would. Yes, yes, yes ! His sing- 
ing ! Did she not know it ? Had not her own heart 
been stirred at the undefinable melancholy with which 
he imbued the cheap sentiment of the songs he sang? 
His face good looking ? His face was beautiful, and she 
was miserable. One of those people who cannot help 
being pleasant to those they are with? Was he of this 
type — the lover who rides away ? 

She could not think of him as less noble than she had 
supposed. Her idol had no feet of clay. His life was 
his own. If he did not give it to her, he had the right 
to withhold it. If she was one of the girls who were 
unhappy for him, the fault was her own. She was suf- 
fering at least worthily, but she had never known him. 

Gertrude spent a bitter hour, and returned to the 


148 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


house. Lady Julia was writing letters. She seemed to 
be always writing letters and speaking of Mr. Graham. 
The scratching of her pen irritated Gertrude to the limit 
of her patience. If Lady Julia saw Gertrude’s unhap- 
piness — and Gertrude was at small pains to conceal it — 
she made no sign. She only looked up from her letters, 
and said : 

How popular Mr. Graham seems to be ! He has 
been staying with the Windermeres, and they are all en- 
chanted with him. Lady Windermere tells me that her 
sons are all devoted to him ; and I always think it is a 
good sign when a man is popular with men.” 

“ I don’t know,” said Gertrude, with antagonism. “ I 
don’t know why you are forever cramming Mr. Graham 
down my throat.” 

But she did know. She knew exactly, and also what 
was likely to happen. Lady Julia believed in a puff 
preliminary, and Gertrude read her sufficiently well to 
guess that sooner or later Graham would be asked down 
< to Eastwood for shooting — and other things. 

Lady Julia argued as we have seen, and she preserved 
towards her niece an attitude of masterly unobservance. 
Inwardly she made notes of all that passed, but she rea- 
soned from precedent that the girl’s sufferings were tem- 
porary, that the feelings had little depth, and that she 
herself was acting in the girl’s real interest. That she 
started upon wrong premises I think our own knowl- 
edge of Gertrude tells us. 

The days became weeks. Gertrude’s spirits did not 
return, but if Lady Julia had been hoping for this she 
determined to count upon it no longer. It might be, 
she thought, that Gertrude’s very depression and indif- 


Miss Maxwell’s affectioks. 149 

ference as to what became of her would further her 
own ends. 

To her surprise, the girl received the news that guests 
were expected at Eastwood with some signs of pleasure. 
Henry Maxwell was among those invited, and Gertrude 
hailed with delight the prospect of having her brother 
with her again. Possibly she expected from him a clearer 
understanding than he would have of her ; but be this 
as it may, she began to count the days to his arrival. 

“ Who else is coming she asked. 

Lady Julia mentioned some names, and among others 
those of Lord and Lady St. Pancras, and — Mr. Graham. 
Gertrude smiled and walked away. 


CHAPTER XX. 

Henry Maxwell was of a type not uncommon in 
his class. He was the idle man. 

His features bore a certain resemblance to those of 
his sister, though his expression lacked the resoluteness 
of hers, and indolence had set its stamp upon him. 
Gertrude, it may be said, was indolent, too, but this was 
from nature rather than habit. In Henry nature and 
habit were synonymous, and he was content to drift 
through his life. Moreover, there was in his face an 
instability and want of purpose that was borne out in 
all that he did — in his half-formed projects, in his pur- 
suits begun and abandoned, and in the ease with which 
his will was dominated by a stronger, or even, with per- 
sistence, by one of no greater strength than his own. 


150 MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 

Gertrude knew him to be unreliable, but he was, nev- 
ertheless, very dear to her. He arrived one morning, 
and she met him at Parkhurst. 

He thought her looking ill, and he told her so, as he 
sat beside her in the dog - cart and she drove. She 
turned the conversation to other matters. She laughed 
a good deal, but it did not strike him that she was in 
good spirits. She told him again and again how glad 
she was to have him with her. She bent her face to his 
to be kissed. He looked at her once or twice in a puz- 
zled way. A change had come over his sister. It 
seemed to him that something had been added to her 
beauty. Her manner was nervous. When she was not 
talking rapidly her eyes were tragic. 

“ Gertrude,’’ he said, suddenly, “ I don’t know what 
it is, but something has happened to you. What ? I 
am looking at you, and I don’t know you. Make a 
clean breast of it, dear. Your brother is a man of large 
sympathies. It won’t be the first time that his sister 
has opened her heart to him — or other people’s sisters, 
either, for that matter. What is it ?” 

Gertrude said nothing. She turned her head a little, 
so that he might not see her face. There was silence, 
broken by the noise of the wheels and the sound on the 
road of the horse’s hoofs. Henry waited a few min- 
,utes. Then he leaned forward. 

“Why are you crying, Gertrude?” he said, gently. 

Her answer was to thrust the reins blindly into his 
hand and to bury her face in her pocket-handkerchief. 
Maxwell was taken aback. He had seldom seen his 
sister show emotion before. Like Lady Julia, he had 
often questioned her capability of feeling any emotion. 


Miss maxwell’s aefections. 


151 


“ You are not yourself. I was sure of it the moment 
I saw you.” 

For the first time Gertrude realized that she was 
changed. 

‘‘ Don’t question me,” she said, hurriedly. “ Perhaps 
I may tell you partly after a time. You are wrong. I 
am myself — terribly myself !” 

He looked at her again, and then he whistled a few 
bars of a song that he knew was familiar to her. The 
words presented themselves to her as he had intended : 

"‘I attempt from love’s sickness to fly in vain, 

For I am myself my own fever and pain.” 

There was another pause after this. Gertrude dried 
lier eyes, and took back the reins. She saw the Manor 
through the trees, and felt one of those sudden stabs of 
pain to which she was almost growing accustomed. 
After a time she spoke. She did not look at him. 

“ That would be rather unlikely, wouldn’t it ?” she 
said. “When have I ever cared for any one? There 
was Kobin Wakefield — poor Kobin! It did not last 
long. You know that I have never had it in me to 
care for any one but myself and you.” 

“ Why can’t you trust me, Gertrude ?” 

“ Because, Henry, much as I love you, I am not blind 
to your faults. You would waver between me and 
Aunt Julia. Dear old Henry, you are too indolent 
ever to be quite stanch.” 

“Supposing that I admit that Aunt Julia’s argu- 
ments, in their worldly wisdom, might have weight 
with me, had you not better adjust a balance by telling 


152 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


me your side first ? Am I invited as peace-maker into 
a house of strife 

“Aunt Julia and I never quarrel,” said Gertrude. 

Henry smiled, and for the time the matter dropped. 
Gertrude missed her opportunity. Her aunt never lost 
a chance. 

It was only a few minutes after the arrival of her 
nephew that she carried him off to the library. Here 
he listened to her for an hour. 

“ You weren’t justified,” he said, when he had heard 
her story. 

“ Of course you say that at first,” she answered. “ I 
expected nothing else. Don’t be a fool, Henry ! You 
have a certain amount of common - sense ; exercise it. 
What would you have said to me if I had allowed things 
to go on as they were. He had nothing — two or three 
hundred a year at the most, and no prospects.” 

“With what Gertrude has of her own they would 
have jogged on very well. I cannot think that you 
were justified. I wonder at old Midlands lending him- 
self to such a scheme.” 

“ St. Pan eras knows nothing whatever about it. I 
have exercised my own judgment in the matter entire- 
ly. Gertrude chose to like this young man, and you 
know Gertrude. She is of the new school, and she does 
not hold herself bound by conventionalities. When I 
found that in my absence she had had him here to 
lunch — to lunch, I trouble you! — don’t you think it 
was time to interfere ?” 

“ In the case of any other girl, perhaps,” replied Max- 
well, slowly ; “in the case of Gertrude, no. You know 
quite well — you must forgive me. Aunt Julia — you 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


153 


know quite well that if he had been what you choose to 
call eligible, Gertrude might have had him here to sup- 
per alone — more, if you had thought well of the chance, 
a telegram, or something, might have called you away. 
Woodford had intentions — ” 

“ Oh yes — every intention,” said Lady Julia, talking 
through her nose, as was her habit when she was an- 
noyed, “ and they were nipped in the bud. You are 
just a little bit ungrateful, Henry. Practically, I have 
saved your sister from making a bad match. I get, it 
seems, small thanks for my pains.” 

“You see,” said Henry, smiling, “you have at the 
same time saved her possibly from the dire fate of a 
happy marriage. You must remember. Aunt Julia, that 
you saved Kate Beckenham in like manner.” 

“I steered Kate safely past certain dangers,” said 
Lady Julia. “ She owes me some thanks.” 

“ You secured position for her. Aunt Julia.” 

“You are sometimes a little bit vulgar, Henry. It 
comes from the Maxwell side, I think.” 

But Lady Julia had no wish to quarrel with her 
nephew. She knew that it would be to her material ad- 
vantage to have him on her side. So she ceded a point. 

“Let us put aside the Beckenham question alto- 
gether,” she said, presently. “Of course I know that 
poor Beckenham is not all that he should be, and so 
there is little analogy between the cases. Everybody 
likes Mr. Graham — everybody — ” 

“ Everybody likes Woodford,” said Henry. “ I know 
something of him, for I knew a chap who was ranching 
with him — a man called Essex. He died, poor fellow !” 

Lady Julia moved impatiently. 


154 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


“ Let US understand each other. What is your atti- 
tude going to be 

‘‘Antagonistic,” said Maxwell, sweetly. 

“ I know you better,” said his aunt. 

“ That or neutral,” said Maxwell. “ To be neutral 
would be less trouble. But I incline somewhat to the 
other.” 

“You will help me?” 

“ I think not.” 

“What then?” 

“I have some thoughts of telling Gertrude exactly 
what has happened.” 

“ Too late for that,” said Lady Julia. 

“ If I see that she continues to be unhappy, I think I 
shall, all the same,” said Maxwell. 

“ Gertrude unhappy !” cried Lady Julia, with a laugh. 
“ She has no deep feelings, nor ever had. She does not 
even gauge the pain she inflicts herself. You know 
that Captain Knutsford proposed to her a few weeks 
ago. Anybody could see when he was down here last 
that he was madly in love with her. I wish you could 
have seen the coolness with which she took his letter.” 

“ Poor old Knutsford,” said Henry. “ I heard about 
it. But Gertrude has awakened to a knowledge of her- 
self. I saw that in two minutes.” 

“ I can only argue from what I have seen,” said Lady 
Julia, but not without a certain misgiving. As we 
know, she had seen much lately to belie her estimate of 
her niece’s character. “ Let us, however, leave it this 
way,” she added, after a short pause ; “ what is done, is 
done. You shall be neutral till you see how you like 
Wilfrid Graham.” 


CHAPTER XXL 


Henry Maxwell did not press Gertrude again for 
confidences, and Gertrude herself, after the strange and 
sudden revelation of her unhappiness, made no further 
allusion to it. She was relieved when time passed and 
her brother did not question her. She knew that dur- 
ing the drive to Eastwood she had almost made a full 
confession, and she could not feel too thankful that she 
had been spared, or rather that she had spared herself, 
this humiliation. The affection between herself and 
her aunt, though sufiicient to answer its own purpose, 
was not of a kind conducive to a close interchange of 
thoughts ; and, with many friends, Gertrude was not the 
type of girl who establishes any real intimacy with mem- 
bers of her own sex. 

At this period in her life, for the first time, she felt 
the need of some one to whom she could speak of her- 
self. The sight of her brother, and the knowledge of 
mutual affection, almost loosed her tongue. There were 
times when in the hunger of her heart she could have 
spoken of France to a very stranger. She was thinking of 
him always ; he was her last thought at night, her first in 
the morning. Her restlessness did not abate ; she was 
tortured to the full. The mystery of her suffering was 
presented to her when she thought of how it had come 
about. If she had known the end, she wondered whether 
she could have regulated the extent to which she let her 
heart go out to him. Would she ever forget him ? 


156 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


She had a dream one night which seemed to her to 
define one phase of her feelings. 

She was in Hades, so she thought, and thither her 
disquietude had followed her. She was weary, but she 
could not rest. Her heart was wrung with memories. 
She was pursued by the ghosts of the days that had 
been. She went from spot to spot. The future was 
without hope. The present was made miserable by the 
recollection of the past. Her anguish found utterance. 
“ Peace ; oh, for a little peace ! Where shall I find it 
A shade came to her. ‘‘Follow me,” he said, “and I 
will show you where it may be found.” He led her to 
the stream of Lethe. “ Take of the waters,” he said, 
“ drink and forget.” But she shrank back. She would 
not drink of Lethe lest she should forget! And she 
woke. 

At the cost of precious memory she would not abate 
her pain by one jot. She suffered doubly because she 
had to suffer in secret. Her brother was unreliable, and, 
like Mary, she kept all these things in her heart. 

In her loneliness strange devices for solacing herself 
occurred to her. She wrote long letters to two of the 
men who had been in love with her. At this moment 
she felt that she could not allow all love to go out of 
her life. She wrote to Wakefield, and reminding him 
of pristine friendship, she asked him if she was for- 
gotten. What had happen to him in all this time? 
Was it well with him? She wrote four pages and she 
tore them up. Some comparison between him and 
Woodford suggested itself, and she experienced a sud- 
den revulsion of feeling. 

To Knutsford she wrote a letter which she posted. 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


157 


If later she could have seen the joy with which he 
received it, she would have realized better her cruelty. 

Her aversion to Brabant fell into abeyance. His 
restless presence had a meaning for her, and she wished 
to see him. She chanced to meet him in the village a 
couple of days after her brother’s arrival. Slie put out 
her hand. 

“ You never come to see us,” she said. Why ?” 

“ I used to go to Eastwood very often,” he said for 
answer. 

“ And now, never.” 

‘‘And now, never,” he said. “You don’t want me. 
You wouldn’t be glad to see me.” 

“ You give me no opportunity of being glad or sorry.” 

Gertrude knew that she was trifling with a great 
danger, but something that seemed outside herself urged 
her to recklessness. He was on foot like herself, and 
Fenton lay beyond Eastwood. 

“ Our paths lie in the same direction,” she said. 

He gazed at her in surprise. 

“ When, once before, we were in this case,” he said, 
slowly, “ you refused to move till I should be gone.” 

Gertrude remembered, and made no reply. They 
began to walk side by side. From time to time he 
looked at her furtively. She knew well that he was 
trying to account for her mood. It must have seemed 
inexplicable to him. She found herself smiling, as this 
thought occurred to her. It suggested another. She 
was acting unjustiflably. He would infer more than 
she meant. What matter ? 

“ So you have remarked that I never go to Eastwood,’^ 
he said, after a pause. 


158 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


“ Of course,” said Gertrude. 

“I wish I understood you,” he said, after another 
pause. “ I should like to know whether any one gets 
close to you — whether, in fact, you have ever cared 
for any one in your life. I believe not. Yes, you may 
smile. Miss Maxwell, but I am inclined to think that 
when nature gives to a woman the power of attraction, 
some special dispensation protects her from the suffer- 
ing which she inflicts reacting upon herself.” 

‘‘ What are you saying ?” asked Gertrude, hurriedty. 

Do you know why I went away ?” he said. Then 
he laughed. “Do you know why I came back? The 
answer is the same. I went away because I wanted to 
forget you. That was a month after you told me that 
you did not like me — ” 

“ I never said that,” said Gertrude, interrupting him. 

“You meant it though,” he answered. “ You hated 
me that time. You let me see that plainly. I went 
away because I could not endure my life. You have 
no powers of knowing what my sufferings were. How 
could you? When I did not see you I could not rest 
because I had not seen you, and when I did see you I 
could not rest afterwards because I had. This is non- 
sense to you. I know that ; but let me say this. Miss 
Maxwell, God save you from ever knowing the mean- 
ing of the days such as I went through. I determined 
to leave Fenton. I thought of going round the world 
— anywhere, it did not matter where, so long as I should 
see nothing to remind me of you. But I could not 
make my plans at once. I went to London, and by 
Ailing every minute of the day, I thought I should 
find some sort of peace. That answered about as well 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


159 


as such plans ever answer. I got through a little 
time—’’ 

He paused, and lapsed for a few seconds into thought. 
Gertrude was walking with her head bent. She did not 
seek again to interrupt him. She noted many trivial 
things — a marble dropped by some child upon the path, 
a skeleton leaf, a snail, the rusty water in the ditch. She 
knew that she was powerless to check the torrent of Bra- 
bant’s words. She bent like a weed in the current that 
rushed over her. 

“ Then,” he said, “ I went down to stay with a man at 
Aldershot. I was quieter then. You did not haunt me 
quite so persistently as before, and I began to hope that 
I might cure myself. One night, being with my friend 
at the mess, I met a man called Knutsford.” 

Gertrude did not look up, but all the same she felt 
Brabant’s restless eyes. She wondered what was coming. 

“We went round to his rooms after dinner, and there 
I saw something which brought back the whole thing 
again. It was only a photograph of you, but, my God, 
it nearly drove me mad. Every thought that I had had 
of you came back. I spent that night walking, trying 
to walk you off” — he added, breaking into a laugh — 
“ as one walks off a cold.” 

“ Please stop,” said Gertrude, with a sudden gesture, 
and in a low voice, “ please stop.” 

She was trembling, under the knowledge of the depth 
of the man’s passion. 

“ IS'o, Miss Maxwell, I have not quite finished. I 
should like you to know everything.” 

They were nearing the lodge gates. 

“ Will you walk on a few steps?” he said, and Ger- 


160 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


trude nodded in silence. From somewhere near came 
the sound of a gun. Harwood and her brother were 
doing a little mild shooting. 

‘‘ I came back the next day. At all costs I felt that I 
must see you. I came round here in the evening, and 
stood for I don’t know how long, where I could see the 
house. But most of the rooms were dark. I thought 
you must be away, and just as I turned to go the car- 
riage came up the drive. I was within a yard of you. 
I watched you go in. Afterwards you stood at your 
window holding a letter in your hand. I saw you 
plainly in the moonlight. I just looked at you, slaking 
my thirst, and after a time you went. I watched till the 
light went out in your window — and after that, too, long 
after that, I looked at the place where you had been.” 

Gertrude thought of another midnight visitor, and 
her lip trembled. 

“ The next day I met you, as you remember. I saw 
that you wished to avoid me. I told you so. Your 
manner goaded me to frenzy. Miss Maxwell, think of 
what I had suffered. I felt an absolute satisfaction 
when I saw the red cut upon your wrist. I had lost my 
self-control when I kissed you.” 

“ I know,” said Gertrude, “ I know.” 

He took something from his pocket. It was a small 
revolver. Gertrude shrank back as she saw it. A fear 
smote her that he intended to kill her or himself. 

“ This,” he said, smiling, “ is what you call in melo- 
drama a ‘ glittering toy.’ I carry it with me. I put 
it to my forehead one day — just here ; do you see ? The 
muzzle is very cold — how hot my head is — ” 

Gertrude looked round. There was no one in sight. 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


161 


“ Don’t be frightened,” he said. ‘‘ I am not going to 
play with my toy just now. I meant to end it all, and 
then I thought I would wait. Look, I have put it away. 
I didn’t mean to alarm you. I met you that day at 
Parkhurst, and you were kind to me — and I waited a 
little longer.” 

Gertrude stood still and put her hand on his arm. 

‘‘ Promise me that you will never think of anything 
so awful again. Promise me. Do you hear? promise 
me. You frighten me.” 

She began to cry. He put his hand on the hand that 
rested on his arm. If she had looked up she would 
have seen with what yearning he looked down at her. 

“ I didn’t mean to frighten you,” he said, gently. I 
ought not to have spoken as I did.” 

Gertrude looked up, then, into his face, but she saw 
it dimly, through a mist of tears. She allowed his hand 
to rest on hers. She was softened towards him as she 
realized the havoc she had made of his life. His suffer- 
ing seemed so closely akin to her own. Heither saw at 
this moment a fair-haired girl who stood at a stile in a 
field hard by and watched the scene. 

‘‘You think that I feel nothing,” said Gertrude, un- 
steadily. “ Oh, if you could know ! I don’t know why, 
but no one reads me fairly. I do feel things — I do, I 
do ! I am often miserable and no one knows. There, 
I have told you what I have not told any one else. Don’t 
think hardly of me. I don’t deserve it. Indeed I don’t. 
I wish I could comfort you. What was that ?” 

She stopped and listened. There was silence. The 
girl in the field had dropped to her knees beside the 
stile, and was pressing her handkerchief to her mouth. 

11 


162 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


Be kind to me,” said Brabant, below bis breath. 

‘‘ Tell me how.” 

“ I don’t know,” he said, “ bat be kind.” 

Gertrude smiled through her tears. 

“ Don’t think of me as happy,” she said. I am not. 
You would not think so if you knew. I scarcely know 
what to tell you to do. I shall always be glad to see 
you now, because — because I understand you. You said 
that I was not capable of understanding, but I do — 
better than you could ever think. Good-bye.” 

“ Good-bye,” he said. 

He held her hand and detained her. 

“ You have been good to me to-day. What will hap- 
pen now, do you think ? A few minutes after you are 
gone — I shall watch you out of sight — a few minutes 
after you are gone I shall be walking home. I shall see 
your face before me all the way. I shall think of every 
word you have said. I shall try to find some hidden 
meaning in each, and I shall not succeed, for you mean 
nothing — you mean nothing. Let me hear you say 
it — ” 

In one sense you are right, but I will not say it ; 
for I mean this — from my heart I wish you well, and 
I am sorry.” 

“ And pity is akin — ” 

Gertrude shook her head. 

“ Don’t try to find that sort of meaning,” she said, 
gently, “ for it will not be there.” 

I shall reach home,” went on Brabant, bitterly, 
“ and it will be empty and desolate, and I shall get 
through the evening Heaven knows how.” 

“My friend, you are not alone in having to get 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


163 


through time,” said Gertrude — ‘^and now once more, 
good-bye.” 

I think I shall write a book,” he said, “ and call it — ” 
“ Call it what ?” 

“ Love, the Diseased 


CHAPTER XXII. 

Lady Julia’s party arrived in the course of the next 
few days. Gertrude, seeking distraction, found herself 
watching for the coming of Graham. 

As the constant dropping of water leaves an impres- 
sion on stone, so the recurring mention of his name had 
at last had an effect upon her in raising a certain curios- 
ity anent the owner. The name had a place in her life. 
Wilfrid Graham ; it was familiar to her as that of an in- 
timate friend. Unconsciously she began to weave round 
it fancies of her own. Wilfrid Graham was this, she 
heard from Lady St. Pancras, and Wilfrid Graham was 
that. Lord St. Pancras said little, but Gertrude knew 
that there was conspiracy abroad. Henry avoided her. 
He was more affectionate to her than ever, but Gertrude 
was conscious of a restraint in him, which she attributed 
to her own silence upon the subject of a recent conver- 
sation. She was wrong. His restraint was due to a full- 
er knowledge than her own of the position of affairs. 

Gertrude got back her color a little in these days. 
She had less time upon her hands. Every minute of 
the day was full. October had come in with fine 
weather. The birds were plentiful, the sportsmen in 


164 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


good temper. Gertrude listened to the constant crack 
of the guns. The sound had established itself among 
the others of the autumn. A coming and a going of 
visitors kept the house in a continual and discreet bus- 
tle. Ladj Julia was at her best. She was an admirable 
hostess. The individual comfort of each of her guests 
was studied, and if at the end of the evening, after her 
last genial good -night and a look into the smoking- 
room to see that everything was as it should be, she 
yawned very heartily in her bedroom, and told her maid 
that she might as well keep a hotel, she always appeared 
at breakfast smiling, fresh, and ready for the work of 
the day. 

Lord St. Pancras looked at Gertrude very often, and 
tried to read her. He was only half satisfied with what 
Lady Julia had thought fit to tell him, and he said once 
more that the girl must not be made unhappy. 

Lady Julia said: “My dear St. Pancras, you know 
Gertrude as well as I do.” 

Lord St. Pancras said : “ My dear Julia, nobody knows 
anybody.” 

Lady St. Pancras said: “My dear John, if Gertrude 
doesn’t fall in love with "Wilfrid Graham, she must be 
hard to please.” 

Lord St. Pancras grumbled. 

“Well, do you wish it, or don’t you?” said Lady 
Julia. 

“ Of course I do,” he replied. 

“Then let things arrange themselves. We could not 
force Gertrude to marry against her inclination, even if 
we tried. We need not flatter ourselves that we could.” 

Gertrude herself, meanwhile, seemed to be made up 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


165 


of three or four Gertrudes. There was the Gertrude 
who lay awake at night and thought of France, and the 
Gertrude who amused herself by day and sought to lose 
her pain in excitement, and there was the Gertrude who 
divined the Graham conspiracy, and the Gertrude who 
trembled sometimes when she thought of Brabant. She 
made no attempt now to understand herself. She was 
the sport of circumstance, she thought. She seemed 
blown hither and thither, and at some time she supposed 
there would come an end. Life must lead to something 
— if only to death. 

With other distractions she avoided Brabant. She 
met him one day near the almshouses on the Parkhurst 
road. The woods were a blaze of color. Beds and 
yellows flamed amid the passing green. He came tow- 
ards her with his gun. He had been with the shooters, 
and was going home. 

She trembled while he held her hand. His face 
alarmed her. She fancied that she saw there a sign of 
something that was terrible. 

“ Is this being kind to me he said, in a low voice. 

“Is what?’’ asked Gertrude. “Please let my hand 
go.” 

He did so. 

“You are keeping out of my way,” he said. 

“ What if I am ?” said Gertrude, gently. “ Is it not 
better that I should ?” 

“I don’t know,” he answered, wearily ; “ I don’t know 
what is better and w^hat is worse.” 

“ Why don’t you go away again ?” asked Gertrude, 
presently. ‘‘ You said that you were better that time. 
I wish you would.” 


166 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


A girl was coming out of one of the row of alms- 
houses. She stood in the garden for some minutes. 

“ Why are you not happy he said, suddenly. You 
said that you were not — why 

‘‘ You must not question me, Mr. Brabant,” Gertrude 
said, hurriedly. I told you all that I could tell.” 

Brabant laughed. 

‘‘Would it help you to understand me,” he said, “if 
I told you that I am glad that you are not happy? 
Sometimes I should like to hurt you. I believe I am 
naturally cruel.” 

Gertrude had stopped at a gate whence led a path 
across the fields to the house. A few minutes later she 
was traversing the path alone. 

The sound of a footfall on the grass startled her, and 
she turned, fearing to see him following her. It was 
not Brabant, however, but a girl who was hurrying tow- 
ards her, and Gertrude, waiting to be overtaken, recog- 
nized Miss Hansom. 

Miss Kansom, we remember, had dropped by tacit 
consent on either side out of acquaintance with Miss 
Maxwell. It was she who had made one or two re- 
marks to Woodford about the pretty Miss Maxwell. 
Gertrude knew this, and wondered what the girl could 
have to say to her. 

Miss Kansom was a slight and fragile girl, with fair 
hair. Too pale and delicate to be pretty, her face had 
yet a certain charm, which owed its existence in part to 
an habitual expression of melancholy. Her skin was 
very transparent, and showed at the temples the blue 
tracery of veins. The eyes were dark and very bright. 
The nervous hands were long and white. As she ran 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


167 


across the field Gertrude noted her slender feet and the 
tendency of the small ankles to bend under what must 
of necessity be a light weight. 

“ I want to speak to you,” said Miss Eansom, in a 
strained voice. “I don’t know whether it is easier or 
more difficult in that we are not — not intimately ac- 
quainted.” She stopped abruptly, and looked Gertrude 
in the face. 

Then a shamed fiush that was painful to see spread 
over her face and colored her throat even, and her eye- 
lids, and her forehead to the fringe of pale hair. She 
began to speak twice, and broke off. Gertrude waited 
for a few moments, and looked at some fiowers she held 
to give time for the girl to recover herself. She di- 
vined vaguely what was coming. 

Miss Eansom made a supreme effort, and gained the 
use of her tongue. 

‘‘This is dreadful,” she said. “I miscalculated my 
powers. I thought I could have said what I had to say 
without making this pitiable exhibition of myself. But 
I will say it. I shall force myself to say it — ” 

“What have you to say?” Gertrude asked, quietly. 
Her self-possession made a cruel contrast to the other’s 
confusion. Each was conscious of this. 

“ Haven’t you enough ?” said Miss Eansom, suddenly, 
and in a choking voice which Gertrude would never for- 
get ; “ haven’t you enough ? What more do you want 
to fill your life? You are very beautiful — you know 
that, and I know it ; and it must be so if I see it, for I 
hate you ! You seem to me to have everything — every- 
thing. Look at your very clothes. You have never 
worn a shabby thing in your life, and I have to wear 


168 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


just what they choose to give me. I am not an alms- 
house, and mamma spends money on nothing else. You 
do things well — you ride well, you drive, and you are 
not afraid as I am. Those are gifts to you that are de- 
nied me. They are no particular merit. They are of 
your nature. You have nerve, and I have none — or else 
I have too many. I don’t know. You are never at a 
disadvantage. You don’t run down at the end of an 
evening and look drawn and ugly, so that you would 
like to break the looking-glass that tells such hideous 
truths. You don’t know what it is for it to be enough 
to wish very much for a thing, not to get it. You don’t 
know what it is to be snubbed and thrown back upon 
yourself — to have not a friend in the world who cares for 
you. All this I know. It is not my fault, any more 
than it is to your credit to be physically beautiful.” 

Gertrude said nothing. She waited. 

‘^All this I know,” continued Miss Eansom, after a 
slight pause. “And other things that are worse than 
these I know. One has, and another hasn’t. You have 
everything, and I have nothing, and yet, like God, you 
want to take from me even that which I had. I don’t 
know that you can help it. I suppose the law is inex- 
orable, but oh, it is cruel ! it is cruel ! Look here, you 
have had heaps of lovers — ” 

“ Miss Kansom !” said Gertrude, suddenly. 

“ It is true, though,” answered the girl, vehemently, 
“it is true! Do you think I don’t know? I have 
watched you with men. They flutter round you like 
moths about a candle. I understand it. I see your at- 
traction myself, so it must be there. I am not saying 
that you wish them to be drawn to you. I don’t think 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


169 


you do, or, at least, I don’t think you try in any way to 
bring them to your feet. Well, men are never attracted 
to me. I understand that, too. I know why. I bore 
them, I think. I am awkward. And yet, when I am 
understood, this is not so. I want sympathy. I have 
lived without it. And the want of it has stinted my 
moral growth — indirectly, even my physical growth, 
because my looks depend upon my happiness. You will 
think me hysterical. I dare say I am. 1 believe I 
could fast and be clairvoyant. I have morbid tenden- 
cies. I think too much about myself. I am always 
dissecting myself. It is not my fault. I tell you I have 
been thrown back upon myself. I hate myself, and late- 
ly I have found an escape. I have found friends in 
drugs. I can lull myself to partial rest.” 

The color had quite fled now from the face that Ger- 
trude was looking at in such surprise. How transparent 
was the pallid skin, how marked the stains under the 
eyes ! The eyes themselves, Gertrude thought, were un- 
naturally bright. 

‘‘ Why are you telling me all this ?” Gertrude said. 

She saw a mushroom as she spoke, and thought that 
presently she would pick it. A cow moved across the 
field and looked at the girls with sleepy eyes. The 
smoke of the chimneys of Eastwood rose vertically above 
the trees. 

“Because I want you to know what you have taken 
from me. It would be less a crime to steal from a rich 
man than a poor one, wouldn’t it ? I am destitute, and 
yet you can take from me. Just look at me for a mo- 
ment. I am plain, but I need not have been so from 
necessity. I have not bad features. I have decent eyes ; 


170 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


I have pretty hair ; but I arn plain because I have been 
denied everything. I have not good health ; I have not 
good looks. See how thin I am. I have seen myself 
look pretty. I was pretty two years ago ; I was not so 
thin. Now, of course, I am undermining my health 
with drugs. Their comfort kills one in time, I suppose ; 
but I don’t care. I was twenty. I had never had a 
lover, and then — George Brabant was my lover.” 

She stopped again. There were tears now in her 
eyes. 

“ I had been away from home a great deal, and it was 
when I came back that I met him, and he talked to me 
as no one ever had before. He cared for me then. He 
told me so; but there was no engagement. I loved 
him — I adored him. I thought of him night and day ; 
and he cared for me, whatever may have happened 
since. Then you came to Eastwood. He was drawn to 
you like the others. You took from me the one thing 
that I had.” 

“ But I took nothing from you,” Gertrude said, slow- 
ly. I never encouraged Mr. Brabant. I will be frank 
with you, I have never liked him.” 

“ I know that you refused him some time ago,” said 
Miss Kansom, still in the same choking voice. “You 
don’t even want him yourself, and yet you keep him 
from me. Oh, give him back to me ! I know his 
faults, but I love him for them. I know his temper. 
I think he could kill one when he is angry ; but I would 
rather be killed by him than live without him. You 
don’t want him — you have said so. You say you don’t 
like him. Why do you meet him? I have watched 
you. I saw you together just now. I saw you a few 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


171 


days ago. You let him hold your hand. You talked 
to him closely. I saw you. You stood like lovers. 
You put your very hand upon his arm and he put 
his hand on yours ; and so you stood. I saw all that, 
and you tell me that you do not like him. What do 
you want of him if you do not like him? You refused 
to marry him when that happiness was offered to you. 
Why don’t you let him alone? I ask so little. I ask 
you of your wealth to give me what you do not need.” 

The girl buried her face in her thin hands and sobbed. 
The slight form shook from head to foot. A very 
tempest swept over her, and she sank to the ground. 

Gertrude looked round hopelessly. She felt her help- 
lessness. Miss Ransom was clearly hysterical, and even 
at this moment there occurred to Gertrude a thought of 
the hideous possibilities that might follow an alliance 
between her and Brabant. Again she had the sense of 
being the sport of Fate. It seemed to her that revela- 
tion followed revelation. The experiences of a lifetime 
were now crowded into the short space of days. She 
had been shown the workings of two diseased minds. 
She prayed that her own might remain healthy. To 
her surprise the sight of the unhappy girl who sat rock- 
ing herself on the grass raised in her no very real pity, 
but as soon as Gertrude realized this, she sought to rem- 
edy it. In wishing that she could feel sorry, sympathy 
came. If half Miss Ransom’s misery was due to imag- 
inary causes, it was none the less dreadful. 

She conquered her feeling of aversion, and gently 
touched the girl’s shoulder. 

“Will you believe me if I say that there is nothing 
between Mr. Brabant and myself.” As Gertrude spoke 


172 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


she was conscious that this was not altogether true, and 
she hastened to add : ‘‘ He is nothing to me. I used 
to dislike him, I do not now; hut I have not changed 
since I refused the proposal of which you know. Why 
should you hate me. Miss Ransom ? I would not hurt 
you in any way. How can I help you ? If I could I 
would.” 

The girl made no answer. 

“Don’t you think that you judge yourself wrongly?” 
Gertrude then said. “I cannot think that life can be 
as hard for you as you say. To begin with, forgive me,” 
and Gertrude smiled, “you are wrong about your ap- 
pearance. And I am sure you have more friends than 
you think.” 

“ If you don’t care for him, why have you met him ?” 
said Miss Ransom. 

“ I met him by accident,” said Gertrude, “ and not by 
design.” 

She did not wish to be questioned with regard to the 
incidents which Miss Ransom had seen, and she hast- 
ened to speak again. 

“Do you know that I should be glad if he were 
away?” she said. “I should be glad to know that we 
were separated by miles. If it will afford you any re- 
lief, I will promise to avoid him as much as I possibly 
can. He is dining at Eastwood one day next week, but 
I will talk to him as little as possible.” 

“ Yes, avoid him,” said Miss Ransom, eagerly. “ Let 
him see that he is nothing to you ; he is everything to 
me, and perhaps then he will turn to me.” 

“ Yery well,” said Gertrude, with a shudder she could 
not repress. “ How I must go.” 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


173 


She shuddered again, and then she put out her hand. 

‘‘ Let us think more kindly of each other,” she said, 
gently. ‘‘ This has been dreadfully distressing to us 
both. Let us forget it.” 

“ Yes, let us forget it,” said the other, dully. 

She rose to her feet as she spoke; her dress was 
stained with the damp of the grass. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

It was a mood resulting in great measure from recent 
experiences that Gertrude met Wilfrid Graham, when 
at last he made his appearance at Eastwood. Her at- 
tempt to find some rest from herself in recalling Bra- 
bant had brought about anything but the end she de- 
sired. The thought of her interviews with him was 
odious to her, and from the recollection of the incident 
connected with Miss Ransom she shrank with loathing. 
It was October, and France had made no sign. 

Wilfrid Graham, the much-boasted, turned out to be 
a very amiable young man, with good physical attributes, 
and a manner that Gertrude readily understood must 
win him many friends. He had an inexhaustible stock 
of animal spirits, and at dinner, for the first time for 
weeks, Gertrude found herself laughing merrily. He 
raised her out of herself. His eyes seemed always on 
the alert to see the amusing side of small things. He 
took life apparently as a jest. Gertrude allowed herself 
to yield to the charm of his manner. She would like to 
go through life laughing, she thought. She had done 


174 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


with tragedy. Tragedy was tragic — then give her com- 
edy or farce. 

Brabant was dining at Eastwood. She caught his 
eye, and the laugh froze on her lips. Graham spoke to 
Lady St. Pancras, who sat on his other side. Gertrude 
fell into silence and thought. It happened that she was 
sitting precisely where she had sat upon the day of 
Woodford’s lunch with her, and her eyes fell upon the 
grim portrait of Maxwell upon the wall opposite. She 
remembered that upon that day it had suggested to her 
a resemblance she had tried in vain to trace. It was a 
handsome face, but cruel withal, and an ugly story of 
murder was attached to the memory of the man who 
had once sat for the portrait. 

Graham turned from Lady St. Pancras. 

“Who was the original of the picture?” he asked. 

“ One Michael Maxwell,” said Gertrude. “ He is not 
very creditable as an ancestor. He lived in the time of 
Charles II., and he is supposed to have been in love 
with — let me see which — yes, the picture next but one 
to him — do you see ? — the lady with the big eyes. She 
would have nothing to say to him, and she was to have 
been married to some one else, and he killed the bride- 
groom. Isn’t it a cruel face? Can’t you believe the 
story to be true of him ? I wonder why we have the 
picture here.” 

“Perhaps they didn’t hang the man,” suggested 
Graham, “so the least they could do was to hang the 
picture.” 

“ Be serious,” said Gertrude, smiling. “ What I have 
been telling you is a tragedy of the most pronounced 
type.” 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


175 


Lady St. Pancras leaned forward. 

“You have stopped at the fourth act,’’ she said. 

“ I never heard of a fifth,” said Gertrude. 

“Oh yes, there is a fifth,” chuckled Lady St. Pancras; 
“the act that adjusts the story. She” — Lady St. Pan- 
cras nodded in the direction of the lady’s portrait — 
“ never cared for the man she was to have married.” 

“And the end ?” said Graham. 

“The curtain falls on possibilities. She cared very 
much for some one else — ” 

Graham laughed. 

“Miss Maxwell finds the play a tragedy,” he said. 
“I find it a comedy pure and simple. As Lady St. Pan- 
cras says, it is the last act that adjusts the story.” 

“A tragedy from the bridegroom’s point of view,” 
^aid Gertrude. 

“Perhaps,” said Graham. “And perhaps, after all, 
the murder might have been avoided. Michael Max- 
well, if he wanted to kill any one, might have killed 
himself, and possibly a word to the bridegroom, and the 
marriage might not have taken place, and would have 
resulted in a clear stage for Edwin and Angelina. By- 
the-way, that is rather curious. Do you see a likeness 
anywhere ?” 

“ Where?” 

“ In the picture to some one here.” 

Gertrude looked up at the canvas, and thence straight 
to Brabant. In that instant she had a fiash of second- 
sight. She rejected the revelation as weak and fanciful. 

“A little,” she said ; “something, perhaps, in the ex- 
pression. He will see that we are talking of him. What 
did you do up in Scotland 4” 


176 


MISS MAXWELL’S ‘AFFECTIONS. 


The talk rolled then to other matters. 

Lady Julia looked on well pleased. Gertrude had 
something: of her old animation. It was clear that 
Graham admired her. Everything augured success to 
her own plans. 

As the ladies left the room Lady St. Pancras linked 
her arm through Gertrude’s. Miss Maxwell suited her 
step to the older lady’s waddle, and thus paced the hall. 
She smiled quietly to herself when, presently. Lady St. 
Pancras gently squeezed the arm she held and said : 

Dear Gertrude,” and put up her fat face to be kissed. 

Later on, when Gertrude saw Lady Julia and Lady 
St. Pancras conversing, she had a fairly accurate knowl- 
edge of the subject of the discussion. 

It surprised her that, at this period of her life, she 
was so little resistant. Just now it seemed to her that 
it did not matter very seriously what befell her. She 
was even content to leave the ordering of her destiny in 
hands other than her own. She had chosen once, and 
her choice had been withheld from her. IN’ow let 
another choose. She could like Wilfrid Graham, per- 
haps, as well as she could like any one else. 

The men came into the drawing-room. There was a 
vacant chair beside Gertrude, and together Graham and 
Brabant made for it. One of those awkward moments 
ensued that involve deeper issues than are at the time 
apparent. Graham was a step in advance of the other. 
Brabant drew back. Graham laughed. 

‘‘ Shall we toss for it ?” he said, good-temperedly. 

“ That is unnecessary,” said Brabant, without relaxing 
to a smile; ‘‘it is yours — yours by the law of last and 
first.” ‘ 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


177 


Graham looked at Miss Maxwell. 

“Last and first,’’ he said, with an amused smile. 
“Why did he reverse the order?” 

Gertrude did not answer. She was watching Brabant 
as he crossed the room. She could not see his face. 
Something in his carriage struck a fear into her heart. 
She trembled for the future, and for what she had done, 
and it was some minutes before the talk of Graham, in 
its lightest vein, could make her shake off an unpleasant 
impression. After a time, however, she succeeded in 
regaining such spirits as had been hers at the beginning 
of the evening. In half an hour Graham and she un- 
derstood each other. He had a way in speaking of 
leaving certain things to the intelligence of his hearer. 
He followed an unfinished sentence with a look of 
amused question, to see whether his meaning was taken. 
This, by action and reaction, was fiattering to botli. 
Gertrude’s wit was sufficiently ready to meet the exi- 
gencies of what was not, perhaps, a very brilliant conver- 
sation. At the least, it sufficed to make her apt to grasp 
his intention. Two or three times she found herself 
laughing merrily. Lady St. Pancras was once the cause 
of her amusement. Whenever the old woman caught 
the eye either of Gertrude or Wilfrid Graham, she 
smiled encouragingly. After the receiving of one of 
these smiles Gertrude and Graham exchanged an almost 
involuntary glance. Graham raised his eyebrows slight- 
ly. The result was some very real and spontaneous 
laughter. Lady Julia and Lord St. Pancras looked over 
in their direction and gave a fillip to the merriment. 
“You laughed,” said Graham, “because — ” 

“ Because you laughed,” 


178 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


Henry Maxwell came over to learn the joke. There 
wasn’t one, Gertrude and Graham told him simultane- 
ously, and that was the best of it. Henry said that he 
had never before heard two people laugh so heartily at 
nothing. 

‘^And yet that is what we are laughing at,” said 
Graham. 

“And you tell me, my dear St. Pancras,” Lady Julia 
was saying, “that you will not have Gertrude made 
unhappy. She looks very unhappy now, doesn’t she ?” 

“I confess I don’t understand women,” said the old 
man, chuckling; “but I do, by- the- way, understand 
wine. And that reminds me — ” 

It reminded him of a certain champagne in which he 
had an interest, and Lady Julia, her mind at rest about 
her niece, was well content to let the talk float buoyantly 
off upon this sparkling current. Later on she found an 
opportunity of making Henry assist in the further 
assuaging of such qualms of conscience as her worldly 
wisdom had not yet laid. 

“ Is or is not Gertrude breaking her heart for young 
Woodford?” she said to him. 

“My good Aunt Julia, how can I possibly tell?” 

“ My good Henry, don’t be a fool ! Is she, or is she 
not, in excellent spirits ?” 

“ Excellent — to all appearances.” 

“ Should you, or should you not, like to see her well 
married ?” 

“ If it is compatible with her happiness.” 

“Young Graham has everything to make a girl happy. 
My dear Henry, you know in your heart that you think 
I was right,” 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


179 


Perhaps you were,” he admitted. 

‘‘But of course,” said Lady Julia. 

Brabant was the only one of the party not staying in 
the house. He rose to say good-night. 

“You will stay with the others and smoke,” said Lady 
Julia. 

“ I think not, thanks. I must be getting back.” 
“You are coming to shoot to-morrow?” 

Gertrude was standing near. He looked at her. 

“ I think not,” he said. 

“Another day, then,” said Lady Julia, and she moved 
away. 

“Hor any other day,” said Brabant, below his breath. 


CHAPTER XXIY. 

It was Brabant in part who now helped matters for- 
ward. The taint of his inheritance had, Gertrude was 
convinced, begun to give its lurid color to his life. She 
went about in actual fear of him. Her aversion to him 
was intensified by her horror of the unhealthy passion 
which she knew him to have inspired in the hysterical 
Miss Eansom. She realized fully that it was illogical 
to be biased against him by a circumstance which he 
could not control, but she was none the less unable to 
refrain from bracketing the two people together, and, in 
the analogy of their ill-balanced minds, thinking of 
them as one. Some words rang in her ears. Brabant 
had spoken of Love, the disease ; and the ugliness of the 
thought had a sinister meaning. She shrank from the 


180 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


recollection of the words with shuddering. It revolted 
her that passion such as his, and that of Miss Ransom, 
and love such as her own, should be called by a com- 
mon name. 

It was a relief to turn to Graham with the twinkling 
eyes. It was like sailing into a calm and sunny bay out 
of a boisterous sea. He had no tempestuous emotions. 

The conspiracy Gertrude very soon found was the 
most open thing in the world. Those implicated in it 
made no pretence of concealment. Lady St. Pancras 
continued to nod and to smile and to look encouraging. 

Young people, she said, in such a case as the present, 
required encouragement. She had required encourage- 
ment herself when St. Pancras was a- wooing. Her hus- 
band chuckled, and said that he hadn’t remarked that. 

The days passed. Fresh relays of guests arrived. 
The conspirators stayed on. Lady St. Pancras grew ex- 
cited. Every day she said she expected a certain little 
item of news, which, when it came, would be good hearing. 
Every night she said, ‘‘ Do you think he has spoken ?” 

“ Oh, give ’em time !” said my lord ; ‘‘give ’em time!” 

“ And opportunity,” suggested Lady St. Pancras. 

“Julia ’ll do that,” said her husband, chuckling. 

This was true. Henry Maxwell was very fairly right 
when he said to his aunt that if France Woodford had 
been desirable, she would not have expressed or expe- 
rienced any righteous horror at the incident of the tete- 
drtHe luncheon. She would, indeed, have viewed it with 
the satisfaction with which she regarded every five min- 
utes that saw her niece and Graham alone together. 
These five minutes occurred often in long succession, 
and made half-hours and hours, 


Miss maxwell’s affections. 


181 


Graham and Gertrude had been acquainted for a 
fortnight only when one Sunday, on the way to church, 
he spoke. The proposal was the most commonplace in 
the world. Gertrude heard his say quietly, and smiled. 
He said that he had not known her long, which was 
true, and they both laughed. But short as the time 
had been, he had learned to — 

Stop,’’ said Gertrude, ‘‘ don’t deceive yourself ; you 
haven’t learned anything of the kind. Let us under- 
stand each other. Do you think I don’t know ? Think 
of Lady St. Pancras ! What were we both laughing at 
the night I met you first, when we told Henry that we 
were laughing at nothing ?” 

“Very well. Miss Maxwell,” said Graham, with 
amused resignation, “ if you will have it so. It is per- 
fectly true my uncle has been urging me to marry. I 
am his heir, as you know, and I suppose he has some 
sort of interest in my career. The alliance which I 
have ventured to propose is, I believe, his dearest wish. 
At least, believe this. Miss Maxwell,” suddenly becom- 
ing grave, “since I have known you, it has been my 
own most earnest wish, too, and I have hardly dared 
to hope. I know you think because I take noth- 
ing seriously that I am entirely superficial, and that 
it is not in me to have any deep feelings, but you are 
wrong.” 

Gertrude thought of her own case. She took a few 
steps in silence. The blackberries were ripe now in the 
hedges. The church bell ceased its ringing. Two or 
three of the Eastwood servants hurried past with their 
prayer-books. 

“We shall be late,” she said. 


182 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


“ Too late to go,” said Graham. Let us take a walk 
instead.” 

Gertrude consented by her silence. 

Lady Julia, at this moment in a creaking silk, and 
proclaiming herself a miserable sinner, noted the ab- 
sence of her niece and Mr. Graham. There were other 
observers to note from the Eastwood pews, but these 
did not affect her. She had seen the pair start for 
church, and it had been her unexpressed hope that cir- 
cumstances might prevent their attaining it. 

“ O, come let us sing unto the Lord,” sang the choir 
— (“ I don’t think they will come now,” thought Lady 
Julia) — ‘Gn the strength of our salvation.” 

“ Let us come before His presence ” — (“ How well it 
was I made Betty come with me in the carriage !”) — 
“ and show ourselves glad in Him with psalms.” 

(“ I was quite certain when he proposed that he and 
Gertrude should walk that something would come of it. 
I suppose we shall know after church. I wish Mrs. 
Peck would not stare at this pew ! How that woman’s 
thoughts do wander in church !”) 

“ The sea is His, and He made it ” — It isn’t every 
girl whose husband owns a yacht. Gertrude ought to 
think herself very lucky !”) — dry land.” 

By the second lesson Lady J ulia had worked herself 
up into a little fever of excitement. Presently she 
could not refrain from communicating with Lady St. 
Pancras. 

“ I think we shall hear something to-day,” she whis- 
pered. 

Lady St. Pancras was a little deaf. 

‘‘ I say we shall know to-day,” whispered Lady Julia. 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


183 


‘‘Twenty-first Sunday after Trinity,” said Lady St. 
Pancras; “I have the collect marked.” 

Lady Julia resigned herself to waiting. 

Gertrude, meanwhile, heard all that Graham had to 
say to her. Woodford’s silence had to some small ex- 
tent blunted her memories of him, but she knew that it 
needed only the smallest reminder — a glance, even, at a 
faded rose that she kept locked up in a drawer sacred 
to itself — to bring back all her misery. The misery 
was there still, though over it had grown a film which 
obscured it. 

The sun struggled out from behind the clouds. It 
formed gorgeous colors up in the trees and hedges. 
Gertrude saw in the added light that the points of her 
neat boots were soiled by the muddy road. She mar- 
velled at her own tranquillity. Strong feeling seemed 
to have left her. She had been listening to a proposal, 
which, if she accepted it, must forever shut France 
Woodford out of her life. But she was powerless to 
grasp her case, She looked up at Graham to see the 
manner of man who had asked her to give herself to 
him. He met her eyes and smiled. 

What a good fellow he was, she was thinking. He 
would be hon camarade — just that. She could live 
merrily. He would understand her thoughts before 
she spoke them. There would be no depths of passion, 
but there would also be no pain. She would be able to 
make him happy — and how she was pining for a little 
happiness herself ! He would be an escape from Bra- 
bant . . . but she was not in love with him. There was 
some tenderness in Gertrude’s face when next she 
spoke. 


184 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


“Will you give me a little time?” she said, gently. 
“ I want to be honest with you and with myself.” 

“ Yes, don’t answer me yet,” said Graham. “ I don’t 
wish you to do anything in a hurry.” 

“ I want to realize the seriousness of marriage,” said 
Gertrude, slowly. 

After that they turned their steps homeward, and 
their conversation to other matters. Two things struck 
Gertrude then. One of these was that Graham, the 
light-hearted and with the twinkling eyes, was talking 
with effort; the second, that she herself was quite un- 
able to appraise what had happened at its proper value, 
and was no more moved than if she had been to church 
with the rest in the ordinary course. 

Henry, another absentee from the Eastwood pew, met 
them in the garden, where he was having a quiet smoke 
before lunch. 

“ Who was it said, ^ I go,’ and went not ?” he said, 
smiling. 

Gertrude said the parable was incomplete. 

Presently the sound of the carriage on the drive 
announced the return of a contingent of the church- 
goers. Lady St. Pancras took her husband’s arm and 
w’addled out onto the lawn. Gertrude could not resist 
a furtive glance at Graham. He turned away smiling, 
and picked a flower, which he presented to his aunt. 
Lady Julia had brought Harwood back with her to 
lunch. He made his appearance presently with those 
who were walking. Gertrude took a turn on the terrace 
with him. 

“ Who didn’t go to church ?” he asked, banteringly. 

“ I wonder,” said Gertrude. 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


185 


I’ll tell you who did,” said Harwood, “ and that was 
Brabant. And he looked absolutely murderous. What 
is coming to him? I never saw any one look so wild.” 

“Oh, talk of something else!” said Gertrude, im- 
patiently. 

“ Then we had a scene just before the sermon,” con- 
tinued Harwood, under the impression that he was 
making himself agreeable; “a girl fainted — fell her 
whole length — ” 

“ Any one I know ?” 

“ I don’t think you do. You know her mother, of 
course — it was Miss Ransom.” 

Gertrude gave a gesture which Harwood failed to in- 
terpret. It seemed to her that there was no escape from 
these two names. At luncheon further mention was 
made of them. Gertrude tried to shut her ears. She 
plunged into conversation with Graham. He was a 
refuge to her. 

The meal came to an end, and there followed the usual 
drowsy Sunday afternoon. Lady St. Pancras fidgeted 
about the drawing-room, and then, having seized on a 
book, disappeared. Her husband settled himself in the 
most comfortable chair in the smoking-room. Lady 
Julia went to her room to write letters, which was an- 
other way of saying to stretch herself upon the sofa and 
to sleep till tea-time. A click of balls sounded in the 
billiard-room, where, said Henry, he had taken a volume 
of Blair’s “ Sermons ” to read aloud to such of the men 
as had missed the privilege of being present at church. 

The day was cold. A party gathered round the 
cheerful fire in the hall. Gertrude went into the 
empty library and sat down on the broad sill of one 


186 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


of the windows. Slie had taken down a book at ran- 
dom from a shelf. She leaned her head against the 
white wood-work behind her and closed her eyes. 

She wanted to devote this afternoon to thinking out 
and facing the future. Let her not be deceived. France 
Woodford was dear to her as ever, though of late she 
had shut him out of her life. The gift of him had been 
too much to ask of the gods, and it had been denied to 
her. Had she not known it always? Such happiness 
as she had desired was too complete a thing to expect in 
a world of universal disappointment. She thought of 
the night when she had wrestled with the terror of the 
knowledge that he was to be taken from her. But that 
was not more terrible than the conviction that at last 
was forced upon -her by his silence. He had never been 
hers — never, not even when etery possible sign seemed 
to point to her unspoken possession of him. For a time 
he had deceived himself — had tried, perhaps, to like 
her, but he had never been hers, never, never, never ! 
A wind had risen, and moaned drearily round the house. 
Leaves were falling. They fluttered sometimes against 
the panes. 

A sound caused Gertrude to start. It was the cau- 
tious opening of the door. Graham looked in, and then 
came forward, closing the door behind him. Gertrude 
put her handkerchief to her eyes, but not in time to 
prevent him from seeing her tears. 

“ Shall I go ?” he said, gently. 

“ Ho, stay,” said Gertrude ; “ I want to talk to you.” 

He drew a chair up to the window. Gertrude looked 
out into the cheerless garden for some moments. He 
saw the quivering of her lips. 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


187 


“ I — I am not going to give you an answer yet/’ she 
said, turning presently with a tremulous smile, “ and I 
want to tell you what may make you withdraw your 
offer. Every one seems so much to make it his or her 
business to talk about me, that I dare say you have been 
told that I have had other proposals — ” 

Graham nodded. 

“ W ell, there is one thing that I know you have not 
been told. I have always been believed to be incapable 
of caring very much for any one. I half thought so 
myself, till — till I met some one, and — and learned to 
know myself — ” 

“Why do you tell me this Graham said, gently. 
“ I know it hurts you to tell me. It will not affect my 
wishes.” 

With a gesture Gertrude waved his words aside. 

“You must fill in the picture for yourself; I can’t 
tell you. He didn’t care for me, but I — I gave him 
all I had to give, and I suffer — oh, how I suffer !” 

Slie put out her hand, and Graham pressed it silently. 

“ I had to tell you,” she said, after a pause, “ because 
I wanted you to understand. I think I could care for 
you, but he was first, and I think he will be first always. 
I am very unhappy. Is what I am saying unwomanly ? 
I cannot help it if it is. It was honester to tell you the 
truth, wasn’t it ? How you are free to withdraw your 
offer if you like.” 

Graham knelt beside the sill with his face close to 
hers. 

“ You said this morning that you didn’t believe me 
when I told you that I loved you,” he said, in a low 
voice. “Believe it now. I love you ten times more 


188 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


for what you have said to me. I wish you could know 
me. I wish you could know how I would try to make 
you happy — how tender I would be to you. You say 
that you think you could care for me. I think I could 
make you care for me. At least, I would live for that. 
If you will marry me, I will try even not to be jealous. 
I will remember that you warned me, and that he — 
whoever he is — was first with you. Then by degrees 
you will forget him — ” 

“ I do not want to forget him,” Gertrude said ; that 
is the greatest part of my suffering.” 

There was no laughter in Graham’s face as Gertrude 
met his eyes. She began to wonder whether she had 
misread this man as others had misread herself. She 
had judged him by a light-hearted manner and a few 
thoughtless remarks. She had called him superficial. 
She remembered presently that she was still looking at 
him. 

Occasional sounds broke the stillness of the afternoon 
— the moving of a chair overhead, a burst of laughter 
in the hall, voices and the faint click of balls in the 
billiard-room, the bark of one of the dogs on the ter- 
race. 

Gertrude removed her eyes from his face. 

“ It is all so soon,” she said, slowly ; ‘‘ you know so 
little of me.” 

‘‘ But if I do not feel that I know little of you ?” he 
answered, smiling. 

Gertrude smiled too. 

“ I will give you an answer to-morrow,” she said. 

Her eyes fell on the book she held. The cover was 
stained. 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


189 


Graham saw the smile fade from her lips. 

“ Not to-morrow,” she said ; “ not to-morrow ! I can’t 
tell you so soon. I — You don’t know me. How can 
any one know me when I do not know myself ?” 


CHAPTER XXV. 

Theee days passed. Graham waited with considerate 
patience. The more Gertrude saw of him the more she 
appreciated his worth. It was no false report of him 
that she had heard. 

Lady Julia kept silence, but with great difficulty. 
She was sure that something had passed between Gra- 
ham and her niece. She said as much to Henry. 

“ Let them alone,” was his advice. 

‘‘Gertrude is capable of refusing him,” said Lady 
Julia. 

“ Gertrude is capable of anything, I grant you ; but, 
my good aunt, remember the watched pot. Lady St. 
Pan eras alone is enough to prevent this one coming 
even to a simmer. If Graham went away without 
speaking, as you call it, lord ! how I should laugh !” 

“My good boy, I think he has spoken already,” said 
Lady Julia, irritably. “If I had my way, Gertrude 
should have no voice in the matter.” 

“You think they manage these things better in 
France ?” 

“Undoubteflly.” 

“ And yet,” |aid Henry, thoughtfully, “ marriage is a 
serious thing — so serious that I can’t undertake it — ^,nd 


190 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


it seems to me that to arrange one for other people in- 
volves a certain responsibility.” 

“I am not afraid of responsibility,” said Lady Julia, 
magnificently. 

Later on Henry remembered her words. 

Gertrude wavered as a vane. If she could have looked 
on at herself dispassionately from the point of view of 
an outsider, her uncertainty would have amused her. 
At one moment she told herself that she cared for Gra- 
ham, at another that he had come to her too late. Some- 
times she was prepared to accept such a lot as was of- 
fered to her. At others the knowledge of the desperate 
finality of the step appalled her, and she shrank with 
terror from deliberately cutting herself adrift from all 
future possibility of intercourse with France. When 
she was with Graham she was drawn to him ; when any- 
thing reminded her of France, she experienced a revul- 
sion of feeling. In such a case, what was to be done ? 

On the second day, after reviewing her position with 
earnest thought, she said, “I will marry him.” Then 
the chance sight of the stream on which she had once 
fioated messages to the other revealed to her how little 
the other was forgotten. Her heart failed her. She 
could not cut him forever out of her life. A few hours 
later a merry luncheon -party at one of the Eastwood 
farms was amusing her, and her case lost its dire import. 
She found herself again unable to realize the situation. 
Graham devoted himself to her. She was content. 
What a good fellow he was, she thought again. If she 
married him, she would be proud of her husband. 
She began to think again that she would marry him. 
She was sorry when the carriages came round, and the 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


191 


shooters made ready to continue their interrupted sport. 
Gertrude was driving one of the Yicarage girls in her 
trap, and Graham saw them off. Gertrude smiled her 
thanks to him as he opened the gate. Miss Mariner be- 
gan to talk about him. 

W asn’t he handsome ? And how well he looked in his 
shooting things ? He had a better figure than any of 
the other men, and she wondered who knitted those 
lovely heather stockings for him in which his legs 
looked so well. Miss Maxwell was unresponsive and 
preoccupied. She, too, in truth, was thinking something 
of the same sort, but she did not care to discuss the sub- 
ject with Miss Mariner. His consideration touched her. 
He made no allusion to what had occurred, but tried to 
re-establish his relations with her upon their former 
footing of friendship merely. 

What was she waiting for? A lover, forsooth, who 
was no lover — the off-chance of meeting him again. 
She asked herself, but with no very real sincerity, 
whether she had not more pride ? The answer to the 
faltering question came without hesitation, and in a 
straight negative. What was pride? If France had 
cared for her she would have been proud to be humble 
before him. To herself she might own that for Wood- 
ford’s silence she would have accepted any explanation, 
however meagre, that would have given him back to 
her. But the silence had continued, and explanation 
there came none. As she had done many times, she put 
the past from her and looked the present in the face. 
Why not let the future take care of itself? Wilfrid 
Graham had now a definite part in her life. She liked 
to have him near her. His face, with the laughing eyes, 


193 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


had grown dear to her. She watched for his appearing. 
She liked the sound of his voice, and the sight of the 
well -grown limbs that suggested his strength and his 
healthy training. 

On the morning of the third day Gertrude came 
down with the full intention of giving him his answer 
in the affirmative. A small thing put her off. Henry 
had found his banjo. 

“And strings — actually,” he said. “I didn’t know 
I left any here.” 

Gertrude was silent. Henry struck a few chords and 
began to sing. Something called him away. Graham 
took up the instrument. 

“ You play ?” said Gertrude. 

“A bit.” 

“How can you?” said Lady St. Pancras, in protest at 
his modesty. “Why, you play quite beautifully, and 
sing, too. He really does, you know,” she added, look- 
ing round. 

“ It is a pity you said that,” said Graham, laughing, 
“ for now, of course, I can’t, and they will never know 
what they have missed.” 

Gertrude suggested, smiling, that they should be al- 
lowed to judge for themselves. 

“ And if we don’t like it, of course we sha’n’t tell you, 
so you won’t know what we really think.” 

Thus encouraged, Graham laughed again, and allowed 
his fingers to form an air upon the strings. He was 
watching her face, and with the first bar he saw a curi- 
ous tension of the muscles. He found himself remind- 
ed suddenly of the face of the greatest French actress of 
the time. Gertrude’s lips were indrawn, and seemed to 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


193 


grow thin, and he saw the skin tighten across the deli- 
cate bridge of her nose. The pupils of her eyes dilated. 
He watched her face as he sang and wondered. 

“Out in the west the shadows are falling, 

The red red sun sets the prairie aflame.” 

A coal fell from the fire and lay smoking on the 
hearth. Gertrude rose noiselessly and put it back. She 
stood then with her face averted. The song came to an 
end. She said nothing, nor did she give him, for that 
day at least, the answer she had intended. 

In the afternoon Gertrude took a long and solitary 
walk. Graham saw her start for it, but he made no at- 
tempt to join her. If only he could have known it, so 
full of contradictions was her mood, that she half wished 
he would propose to accompan}^ her. Some such pas- 
sage as the following occurred after lunch : 

“ I am going for a walk.” 

‘^Alone 

“Alone.” 

The word was given very firmly. Perhaps Gertrude 
realized this. 

“ I am going to the top of Eastwood Cone.” 

“ That is the hill with the view — the view you prom- 
ised to show me ?” 

“ Yes.” 

He walked with her to the gate. 

“ You will be lonely.” 

“ I like that sometimes.” 

He watched her out of sight. If, indeed, she wished 
him to join her, she did not make her meaning very 
clear. She knew this, and was angry with herself. She 
13 


194 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


was lonely — very lonely. The road wound lengthily 
round the hill. She followed it instead of going up- 
ward by the shorter path. What generous colors paint- 
ed the autumn day ! The sky was clear, with piles of 
woolly white cloud that later might mean rain. Here 
and there, like ships upon the sea, fragments of vapor 
detached from the larger masses sailed lightly on the 
blue, and when they hid the sun, the landscape that was 
unrolling itself beneath underwent a partial eclipse. 
How, under such a one Gertrude was in shadow, while 
down in the valley the light gilded meadow and road. 
Then the sun emerged fully, and the whole earth 
laughed. Guns sounded in the woods, and from a heap 
of stones at the road-side the snapping noise of a stone- 
breaker’s hammer marked irregularly the flight of time. 
Pines, like an ascending army, climbed the hill on her 
right, and the pleasant §mell of them scented the air. 
A rook happed through the empty heavens, and made a 
spot of deepest black upon the blue and white. Ger- 
trude walked on, noting all these things with the appre- 
ciation of one to whom the workings of nature appeal. 
She could see Hatton now nestling among the elms — 
Hatton, where she had spent those terrible hours, during 
which a knowledge had come to her of an impending 
disaster. There was the road, along which, goaded by 
the strange intuition of coming misery, she had driven 
so furiously home. 

“France, France, France !” she said to herself, aloud. 
Her eyes filled with tears, and through their mist she 
saw in the scene a curious jumble of lights and colors. 
She brushed her tears away presently. What was she 
waiting for? France was gone. Even Mrs. Woodford 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


195 


was away, and thus the only source whence news of him 
could come was closed. She had almost cried aloud to- 
day, when she had realized that Graham was singing 
the song which was sacred to her memories of France, 
as to France it was sacred to his own of Essex. It had 
awakened in her all the dim romantic fancies which she 
had woven round Woodford’s life in the West on that 
memorable occasion when she had first met him, and he 
had told her something of the ranch. She remembered 
now how he had spoken to her of his friend, even at 
that very early date of their acquaintance. It was his 
affection for the friend that had touched her. Perhaps 
in very deed the dead friend stood between them. Ah, 
these thoughts, these thoughts! Would they never 
leave her ? And Graham was waiting so patiently. . . . 
She had reached her destination, and she looked round. 
Like a map, the surrounding country was spread out be- 
fore her. She could see the roofs and spires and smoke of 
Parkhurst, and to the left a bit of the Manor. Farther, 
rising above the lower woods, she could see the red 
house of Harwood. Eastwood itself was hidden. The, 
hills were purple now under a shadow. Turning round 
and looking westward she saw Fenton, Brabant’s place. 
Gertrude thought of the miserable woman who had 
been stared out of life inside those gray walls, and she 
shuddered. She was lonely. Why had not Graham 
come with her ? He was not with the shooters, unless 
he had since joined them. She knew that the smallest 
suggestion upon her own part would have made him her 
ready companion. She had even repelled him, and she 
was contrite. A sudden rush of warm feeling for him 
came to her, and she knew that a turning-point was 


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MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


passed. She said his name below her breath — Wil- 
frid.” Then she said it aloud, to gauge- its sound. She 
remembered that in just such a manner had she said the 
name of France — and how many times ! She had won- 
dered whether it was short for Francis, or whether it 
was a name in itself ? . . . Even now everything led back 
to France. There was a wan and very hopeless look on 
Gertrude’s face as for the last time — with such intent — 
she turned in the direction of the half-hidden Manor. 

“Good-bye,” she said, “good-bye, good-bye! I am 
going to try to forget you. I am going to shut you 
out of my life. I am going to make it a sin to think of 
you. I wish I could forget that I had ever seen you. 
You brought me great unhappiness, but I think I care 
for you so much that nothing that you could do would 
lessen my love for you — ” 

There was a long pause. Gertrude stood still. She 
did not withdraw her wistful eyes from the patch of 
black and white among the distant trees that was for 
her not the Manor, but the house where France had 
stayed. Her chin and mouth grew pinched, as if with 
cold. The wrench was very great. 

“ Good-bye, France ! Good-bye, my dear, dear, dear 
France ! Good-bye 1” 

She closed her eyes for a moment and then she turned 
towards home. 

The sun was making ready to set. With his going 
down the sky looked more than ever like the sea. There 
was a bank of cloud that might have been a yellow 
stretch of sand skirting waters of the faintest greenish 
blue. There were peninsulas that jutted out thence, 
and there were bays and islands. The illusion was so 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


197 


complete that Gertrude paused to watch its effect in 
rapt wonder. With every moment came some change 
of color. The sun himself, like some huge coin from a 
giant mint, sank in a bath of gold behind the shore. 
Gertrude looked at him, and looking thence was blinded 
as one who has looked on a god. It was some moments 
before the crimson disks ceased to float before her eyes, 
and suffered her to see clearly. When she looked again 
the sun was gone, leaving a dazzling rim to the clouds 
that hid him. The faint hues of the upper sky became 
more opaline in tint, and presently assumed a deeper 
color. The peninsulas and islands grew purple. The 
evening began to close in. The pines threw dark and 
cone-shaped shadows on the road. The sound of the 
guns was stilled. The stone-breaker had left his work. 

Gertrude walked briskly home. Her mind was made 
up now, and whether she spoke to Graham that night 
or on the morrow the result would be the same. For 
the present, if you will forgive her the solecism, the 
past was dead. They would all be glad, she supposed — 
those to whom her marriage afforded any interest. Lord 
St. Pancras would chuckle and pat her on the back. 
The portly Betty would squeeze her hand in a fat clasp, 
and fold her to an ample bosom. Henry would con- 
gratulate her with lazy affection ; and Lady Julia — Lady 
Julia would congratulate herself upon the success of her 
match-making. 


CHAPTER XXVL 


No opportunity of speaking to Graham and telling 
him her decision occurred that evening. Something 
else occurred, however, which had an indirect bearing 
upon Gertrude’s life, and will find its chronicle in this 
chapter. 

Gertrude entered Eastwood by the back entrance. 
She was not in a mood for joining the others. She 
looked, as she passed, into the hall whence proceeded 
the sounds of laughter and talking. The shooters had 
come in, she saw, and a large party was drawn up round 
the tea-table near the blazing hearth. Lady St. Pancras, 
who had wished in vain to be a mother, was petting her 
nephew. Graham was submitting with graceful good 
temper. He alone caught sight of Gertrude as she stood 
for a moment at the door, but she shook her head in 
sign that she did not wish to be seen, and he made no 
comment upon her presence. She went up to her room. 
As she passed Henry’s door she heard the sound of his 
banjo. He was picking out a tune — a laborious thing 
with him, and of uncertain result. He had found his 
toy which was lost, and Gertrude smiled to herself as 
she thought that he bid fair to make — Lady Julia thus 
expressed it — the night hideous with song. He would 
probably, as was his wont, begin again to practise when 
every one else wished to go to sleep. 

She changed her walking-dress for a wrapper, and her 
boots for a pair of dainty shoes, and then having drawn 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


199 


the sofa up to the fire she put thought from her and 
read comfortably till it was time to dress for dinner. 
A pleasant sense of ease and rest stole over her. Her 
mind was more tired than her limbs, and it was a relief 
to lose herself in ideas that were not her own. She was. 
wearied with the tumult of her emotions, and now she 
experienced a calm such as often succeeds a storm. In 
the grate the flames danced round a log, and threw 
patches of vivid gold upon Gertrude’s soft draperies. 
The steadier light of the candle by which she was read- 
ing hindered little the fire’s wanton play upon the walls. 

It seemed but a few minutes later that the dressing- 
bell sounded noisily through the house, and Gertrude’s 
maid came to disturb her. 

At dinner there was a vacant plate. A servant re- 
moved it hastily. Gertrude was reminded of a like in- 
cident. It was Graham this time who was absent. 

“He will be back to-morrow,” Lady Julia was saying, 
in answer to a question. “He got a telegram half an 
hour ago which obliged his rushing off to catch the eight 
o’clock express.” 

Some regret, in which Gertrude joined, was expressed 
at his absence. Its cause is immaterial to this story, 
and may be vaguely attributed to business. Its result, 
however, was to show to Gertrude how closely in a short 
time he had woven his life about her own, and how very 
much she missed him. Dinner seemed to her to pass 
flatly, and it was an effort to maintain a conversation 
which did not interest her with either of her neighbors. 
She became conscious that it was Graham who had been 
the life of her side of the table at least. He had the 
happiest knack of imbuing others with something of 


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MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


his own natural flow of animal spirits. It was, perhaps, 
this trick, power, call it what you like, that had led 
Gertrude in the first instance to misjudge him. Where 
he was, there would be no fiagging of talk, and no 
lack of laughter; not so much that he was particularly 
witty as that something in his personality impelled 
those near to him to see with his eyes, to which things 
revealed their humorous aspects. Possibly thus he won 
his popularity. Gertrude, who was closely observant, 
had remarked that he called forth much that was merely 
latent in people whom she had deemed fundamentally 
uninteresting. The secret of his success in this lay 
partly in the fact that he condemned no one unheard. 
One thought suggested another, and Gertrude smiled as 
she found herself laying one or two lessons to heart. 

“ I miss you,” she thought ; “ I miss you. I want you 
back. I want to talk to you, and to see you.” 

Lady St. Pancras seized upon her after dinner, and 
talked in a tactless sort of way about her nephew. Lady 
St. Pancras’s part in the conspiracy was, it may have 
been remarked, singularly badly played. She was like 
some histrionic amateur who overmarks his points, and 
in a subordinate role attempts far more than ever the 
author intended. 

Wasn’t Wilfrid a dear fellow? Gertrude might 
guess how proud they were of him. He made quite a 
blank at the dinner -table by his absence, didn’t he? 
And what a good-looking fellow he was. Did Gertrude 
know — really this was very naughty of her (Lady St. 
Pancras) ! — but she thought he was very hard hit in a 
certain quarter, and for her own part the speaker was 
not surprised — but oh, how naughty of her! how her 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


201 


foolish tongue did wag, and how indiscreetly! Would 
Gertrude kiss a foolish old woman who was very fond 
of her, and — and forget all the stupid, stupid things she 
had been saying? 

Gertrude, with some effort, conquered her inclination 
to laugh, and Lady St. Pancras made her way to Lady 
J ulia. 

‘‘I think it will be all right,’’ she said, with mysteri- 
ous importance, and speaking in a whisper. “I have 
just been having a little talk with Gertrude, and I let 
fall one or two casual remarks about Wilfrid. I just 
sounded her — ” 

‘‘You did what?” said Lady Julia. 

“ I sounded her as to her opinion of my nephew, and 
I gave her the most delicate little hint in the world of 
the position of affairs, in a very veiled way, of course, 
and I am always very guarded in a case of this sort.” 

“I hope you did no harm,” said Lady Julia. 

“ My dear,” said Lady St. Pancras, “ you can trust me 
for that. I flatter myself I have quite a special capabil- 
ity of handling matters that involve a certain delicacy 
and flnesse. I think in a thing of this sort one cannot 
be too careful to disguise one’s own personal interest.” 

Lady Julia did not look convinced, and Lady St. Pan- 
cras, who, perhaps, really did feel that upon this occasion 
her zeal had got the better of her discretion, laid yet 
further stress upon her supposed possession of qualities 
of policy and tact. By ten o’clock she had persuaded 
herself, at least, that she was a fully-qualifled diplomatist. 

It was about an hour later that, as the ladies were pre- 
paring to retire, there occurred the incident which 
caused Henry Maxwell to remember his aunt’s words 


202 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


with regard to her indifference to responsibility. There 
was a sound of wheels on the drive. 

“Who, at this hour said Lady Julia. She put down 
the work she was rolling up. 

Lady St. Pan eras paused on her way across the room. 

“More visitors, Julia? You keep open house.” 

“ I don’t expect any one to-night.” 

“ Perhaps it is Mr. Graham,” suggested some one. 

Gertrude went to a window which commanded a view 
of the door, and disappeared behind the curtains and 
the blind. 

“ It is a fly from Parkhurst,” she announced, “ and it 
can’t be Mr. Graham, for there is a trunk.” 

The front-door bell rang loudly. 

“ I wish I could see,” said Gertrude. “Now they are 
getting out. It is a lady and another — no, a maid, I 
think.” 

“An arrival?” said Lady Julia ; “but I expect no one, 
unless the Hurlinghams have mistaken the day.” 

“ It isn’t Lady Hurlingham,” said Gertrude ; “ she’s 
as tall as you, and as fat as” — she was going to say Lady 
St. Pancras, but she recollected herself in time to sub- 
stitute for the name, “ possible ” — “ as fat as possible. 
This is some one slight. We shall know in a minute.” 

“We are vulgarly curious,” said Henry, “even to the 
extent of spying behind blinds.” 

Gertrude threw a cushion at him gently, with some 
retort which, without much analysis, showed itself to 
be of the tu quoque order. Henry told her so, and some 
brother -and -sisterly sparring ensued, in the course of 
which the door was opened, and the butler announced : 

“ Lady Beckenham.” 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


203 


There was a pause. All eyes were turned towards the 
door. Lady Julia moved forward as she heard her 
niece’s name. 

“What can have brought Kate here at this hour?” 
she said, half to herself, half to the others. 

Gertrude was conscious of something dramatic in the 
situation. She did not yet know what was about to 
happen, but there was that in the hour of the unexpect- 
ed arrival, and in the sudden grouping of the people, 
their faces all turned in one direction in expectancy and 
curiosity, tj^at reminded her of some tense moment in a 
play. The suggestion was carried out, even to the en- 
tering of Lady Beckenham a few seconds after the 
announcement of her name. Lady Beckenham was very 
pretty, very small, with a childish face, and a somewhat 
helpless cast of countenance. She hurried forward and 
kissed her aunt. Then she looked round in a bewildered 
sort of way, to pick out such faces as she knew. 

“How do you do, Gertrude? Henry, I didn’t see 
you. Lady St. Pancras, how do you do ?” 

“My dear Kate,” said Lady Julia, “this is very un- 
expected. We are, of course, all very glad to see you, 
but — what on earth brings you here? You are only 
just in time to find us up. Have you dined ?” 

“ I don’t want anything. I had a sandwich. I sup- 
pose it does seem extraordinary. I forgot you had the 
house full, and I didn’t know where else to go.” 

Gertrude was helping her cousin to divest herself of 
her coat. 

“ Your eye, Kate !” she said, suddenly. “ What have 
you done to your eye, you poor little thing?” 

Lady Beckenham had been nervously unfastening her 


204 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


veil. Gertrude saw her lips begin to tremble. On the 
white flesh there was a heavy bruise. 

‘‘ That’s what brings me,” cried Lady Beckenham, 
with a sudden burst of tears. “He hit me. I don’t 
care who knows. I don’t care, I don’t care, I don’t care, 
I hate him ! I have always hated him. They made me 
marry him, and now I am going to divorce him !” 

There was a low murmur of compassion for the poor 
little wife. Lady St. Pancras threatened to become hys- 
terical. Gertrude and her brother exchanged glances and 
looked instinctively at their aunt. Each had a nervous 
inclination to laugh. Henry turned away to hide a smile. 

“ This is very painful,” Lady Julia said, as soon as 
she could And a steady voice in which to speak. “ I 
hope every one will excuse you. You are overdone to- 
night, dear. You had better come to your room.” 

The kindness of her tone did her some credit. Ger- 
trude, who saw her privately later on, knew the effort 
it must have cost her. Then, Lady Julia’s aspect had 
somewhat changed. The genial curves had gone from 
her face, which was hard and forbidding. 

“ The scandal !” she said. “ Before a house full of 
people. The indecency of the whole thing. . . !” 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

It was at about one o’clock that there was a knock at 
Gertrude’s door. She had been expecting the sound, 
and she lay in her dressing-gown curled up on the sofa 
before the Are. She jumped to her feet and drew for- 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


205 


ward a huge arm-chair, iu which, when her little cousin 
had settled herself with a sigh of comfort, she looked 
like a child. 

“ Aunt Julia’s very angry,” she said, as her first re- 
mark. 

‘‘Well, she is a bit,” said Gertrude, smiling; “ but that 
doesn’t matter.” 

“ I don’t care whether it matters or not. It was 
rather — rather vulgar of me to make a scene, wasn’t it ? 
But I don’t always stop to think. I am sorry if I dis- 
graced Aunt Julia; but I can’t help being glad, too — 
for she made me marry him. Am I much disfigured ?” 

Gertrude was again conscious of an inclination to 
laugh. Lady Beckenham, sitting in the huge chair in a 
number of nondescript garments (the fiight had been 
too hurried for discriminate packing) presented a very 
comical aspect. At first she had suggested to Gertrude 
a little child, now it was a large doll — and a doll dressed 
by a child. She wore a night-gown, over which she had 
tied a petticoat to keep her warm as she crossed the 
passage ; for the same reason, perhaps, she had a cloth 
coat that belonged to a walking costume, and over all 
an Indian shawl. 

“ I caught up the first thing I could see as soon as 
Aunt Julia left my room,” she said, in explanation of 
her extraordinary attire. “ I thought she would never 
go. I believe she had been to you first ?” 

“ Yes, she came in here,” said Gertrude. 

“ To talk over me with you ?” asked Lady Becken- 
ham. 

Gertrude nodded. 

“ She may talk over me as much as she likes,” said 


206 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


Lady Beckenham, with a show of firmness that deceived 
neither Gertrude nor herself, but she won’t talk me 
over. She wants me to go back to him. And I never, 
never, never will !” 

“Let me lend you a dressing-gown,” said Gertrude; 
“ you can’t be comfortable in all those odds and ends.” 

Her cousin shook her head. 

“ Don’t move. It would disturb us both. I am 
quite comfortable enough, and it is only for to-night. 
My things will be sent to-morrow. I came away in a 
great hurry, you know; and if I stay here — or, indeed, 
in any case — my maid will go to Lesham early to- 
morrow and fetch my things. Re is going to Paris, 
and so he will be out of the way.” 

“What happened, you poor little woman?” asked 
Gertrude. As yet, though she knew them to be very 
real, she could not take her cousin’s troubles seriously. 

“Everything,” said Lady Beckenham, comprehen- 
sively — “ everything. I have a case that would con- 
vince every jury that ever was got together; and, oh 
Gertrude, it is horrible of me, I am glad ! Are you 
shocked ?” she added as an afterthought, and contemplat- 
ing Miss Maxwell out of the corners of her eyes. 

“ I know you have had to put up with a great deal,” 
said Gertrude, after a pause. She was watching a cave 
that had formed itself in the fire, and wondering how 
soon the glowing walls would fall in. 

“ I can talk quietly now, you know,” said Lady 
Beckenham, “ because here I feel safe, and you are my 
dear friend, Gertrude ; but I cried almost all the way in 
the train, Janet will tell you so; and — oh, Gerty, you 
don’t know all I have gone through !” 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


207 


‘‘ I can guess.” 

“ And I have stood it all for more than three years. 
Is my eye much swollen ? It is a pity, isn’t it, for I 
have rather pretty eyes ?” 

Gertrude raised herself on her arm and leaned over 
towards the dressing-table, whence she managed to take 
a hand-glass. She gave it to her cousin and watched 
her with some amusement as she contemplated her feat- 
ures by the light of the fire. 

‘‘I have often seen black eyes before,” said Lady 
Beckenham ; they seem to be presented to poor wom- 
en by their husbands pretty frequently, and I have 
wondered what it felt like to be given one. I know 
now. You think at first that all possible pain has con- 
centrated itself in your eyeball, and that your eye itself 
has been pushed back into your head. After that you 
see stars.” 

Lady Beckenham continued to consult the mirror. 
With a very white and delicate finger she gently touched 
the angry bruise that constituted part of her ‘‘case.” 
She smiled at her refiection, and the exact balance hav- 
ing gone from her face by the magpie effects of black 
and white, her smile presented a curious aspect. 

“ How funny I look !” she cried, convulsed with sud- 
den merriment. ‘^How funny! Look at me, Ger- 
trude; did you ever see anything so funny? Oh, you 
funny, funny little closed-up eye ! You are no relation 
to the other. I am like an advertisement of a soap — a 
nigger washed partly white, or a sweep or something. 
I know I have seen a picture of the sort.” 

Gertrude caught her cousin’s suggestion, and the two 
young women laughed till they could laugh no more. 


208 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


Lady Beckenham rocked her shaking little body in the 
great arm-chair, and Gertrude buried her face in the 
cushions of the sofa to control the sounds of mirth that 
came from her lips. Twice the paroxysm of merri- 
ment seemed about to pass and broke out afresh. An 
exchange of glances was enough to renew the peals of 
laughter, the effort to suppress which added so mate- 
rially to their heartiness. 

It was only by degrees that the storm subsided, and 
left two exhausted young women with faces tremulous, 
and ready at the smallest provocation to avail them- 
selves again of that form of relief with which nature 
has endowed the young. 

Gertrude felt a gain in mind and body. It was very 
long since she had laughed heartily at anything, and the 
grotesqueness and inappropriateness of her recent exer- 
cise of the risible faculties had, like the effort to sup- 
press it, only given to it an added zest. 

What’s that ?” said Lady Beckenham, pausing in 
the act of putting down the little silver-backed looking- 
glass which, in its passage through the air, sent a golden 
dart of firelight across the ceiling. 

A dismal twanging broke the silence of the night. 

“ Henry’s banjo,” said Gertrude. 

“ Why does he play the ‘ Lost Chord V ” Lady Beck- 
enham asked, after a pause, during which the tune de- 
clared itself feebly. AVhether the sounds had a depress- 
ing effect or not, I cannot say, but there were no more 
expressions of mirth that night in Gertrude’s room. Lady 
Beckenham’s troubles were anything but imaginary, and 
presently, as Gertrude had half expected, their weight 
cast its gloom over the little woman in the big chair. 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


209 ' 


“ I wonder what you think of me she said, after a 
long pause, during which her little face had been length- 
ening. ‘‘I haven’t made a very dignified picture of a 
wronged wife. I think you understand me, Gertrude. 
I may laugh as I have been laughing, but I am misera- 
ble — oh, I am miserable. I have had three years that I 
wonder have not crushed every laugh out of me. I 
have cried myself to sleep many, many nights. What 
did he marry me for if he did not mean to be faithful 
to me ? He hasn’t even made a pretence of it. Every- 
body knew the sort of man he was. I know that now. 
Aunt Julia must have known, and she made me marry 
him. And oh, Gertrude, one of the things that makes my 
life most unbearable is that people let me see that they 
know ! They don’t mean it unkindly, some of them. 
They want to show me that they are sorry for me, but 
it galls me. Perhaps I am too sensitive. You see, I 
am not a woman of the world. I never was. I never 
shall be. I know many women in my own position 
who manage to be happy enough. He gives me plenty 
of money, and I have everything I want ; but, then, 
I don’t feel as if I wanted anything. You know I hate 
him ! I hate his face with its good features, that are 
getting bloated, and its handsome eyes, that are gener- 
ally bloodshot. It repels me when I wake up opposite 
to it in the morning. I hate the smell of the whiskey 
that he begins the day with. He is irritable always 
early in the morning. We have pretty little scenes at 
breakfast. It must be very edifying to the servants, I 
think. I used to be ashamed, now I don’t much care. 
I have had time to get accustomed to it. Even from 
the most trifiing point of view, it is so uncomfortable. 

14 


210 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


We change our servants so constantly. They won’t 
submit to being sworn at. Why should they ? I gen- 
erally take their part, and then he swears at me. I live 
in such a noisy atmosphere. I dare say it sounds a hor- 
rible sort of thing to say, but he ought never to have 
married. There are noisy women in the world, who 
don’t ask for marriage, and who have no fine feelings to 
be jarred. Oh, Gertrude, I would give something to 
be my old self again — to be the girl who was, perhaps, 
more ignorant of the world than most girls! I know 
so much that is ugly now. The knowledge is inevita- 
ble to the life I live. Sometimes the very servants 
themselves have offered me pity. Think of that, Ger- 
trude — think of it 1 — and sometimes . . . There was a 
housemaid I had, a very handsome girl, who was imper- 
tinent to me. I threatened to tell my husband of her 
conduct, and she laughed in my face. I told Becken- 
ham, and he said I was jealous of her beauty . . . the 
insult! — and I knew that there was a greater insult 
behind that. These things are hideous to speak of, 
then what must the indignity of them be to bear! I 
am younger than you, Gertrude, and think of what 
I have gone through! I wasn’t a commonplace girl 
either. I had ideals. I thought of marriage as a sa- 
cred tie ; now it seems to me a pretty name for an ugly 
thing. . . .” 

Lady Beckenham paused. The glowing cave in the 
fire fell in with a little crash. To Gertrude, in the 
small figure in the big chair there was no longer any 
suggestion of a child or a doll. With the story of her 
three years’ bondage. Lady Beckenham’s face seemed to 
have grown older. Something of the dignity of suffer- 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


211 


ing invested the little features with an air of nobility 
belonging to one of statelier presence. 

“I don’t know why he married me,” she continued, 
presently. I am not a bit his style, though, of course, 
I know I am pretty — not just now, perhaps, with an eye 
like a — like a — ” 

‘‘Prize-fighter,” suggested Gertrude. 

“ — like a prize-fighter,” said Lady Beckenham, with 
a slight inclination of her head; “but I am normally 
quite pretty in a small significant sort of way. I am 
not his style. He didn’t want money, and I hadn’t any 
to speak of if he did. And there isn’t enough of me to 
look dignified at the top of a table in the huge rooms 
at Lesham or in Grosvenor Square. I think he just 
took a sudden fancy to me, and followed it up because 
I did not wish it. He got Aunt Julia on his side at 
once — ” 

Here Gertrude interrupted her cousin to say laconi- 
cally : 

“ Dare say she did not want much getting.” | 

Lady Beckenham smiled. 

“ She married her niece brilliantly,” she said, shortly. 

The fire fell lower in the grate. The sounds of the 
banjo ceased. A dog was whining dismally somewhere 
within ear-range of the house. 

“I suppose my story is not an uncommon one, nor 
will cease to be common as long as marriages are made 
for convenience,” continued Lady Beckenham. “ I could 
name hdf a dozen women in cases like mine. Of course, 
my case might be worse. I know a woman married to 
just such a — such a profligate as my husband, and she 
adores him. Think of that, Gertrude! I can’t be too 


213 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


thankful that I do not care for Beckenham. If I did I 
think my life would kill me — paradox ! I could not 
live with the knowledge that the ties that bound me 
absolutely were to him no ties at all. Look here, Ger- 
trude, I would have cared for him if he had let me. 
Everybody knows how unwillingly I married him ; but 
once I was married, I determined to try to love him. I 
thought then, you must remember, that he really cared 
for me. I reproached myself with my coldness, and I 
looked at him and said to myself that he was my hus- 
band, that henceforth we were one, that the step we had 
taken was irrevocable, and that I had sworn to love him. 
You have seen Beckenham, you know how good-looking 
he is, or, at least, how good-looking he would be if he 
lived a healthier life ; he is growing coarse now. I re- 
member so well looking at him in the train that took us 
away for our honeymoon. I remember the suit he wore 
— a check suit. I remember the touch of the nap when 
I went and sat beside him. I remember the cap he 
wore pulled down onto his forehead. I remember re- 
marking what a beautiful nose he had — straight, finely- 
cut, and what a smooth line of cheek and chin, and — I 
was proud of him. I had never looked at him before to 
see what I thought of him. He was at his best then, or, 
at least, he had not long passed his best. He was a splen- 
did specimen of an Englishman. I look back now, and 
I am amazed at the difference three years have made in 
his appearance. I don’t think he was coarse then as he 
is now. But the work of his forty years must have 
begun at that time, or it (H)uld not have advanced so 
rapidly. I was ready to love him that day . . . a month 
later, I came back to Lesham loathing him, and appalled 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 213 

by the knowledge that I was bound to him for the term 
of my natural life. 

Lady Beckenham spoke in a low and even tone. She 
kept her eyes upon the glowing embers of the fire, and 
Gertrude tried to realize the pictures that were present- 
ed to her cousin as she spoke. 

You don’t really know him,” said Lady Beckenham, 
after another pause. He has been on his good behav- 
ior whenever you and Aunt Julia have stayed with us at 
Lesham. Oh, I don’t want to make the case against him 
worse than it really is. I dare say the fault is partly 
mine. I am not the sort of wife for him. I said before, 
I know lots of women would manage to be happy enough 
in an arrangement for each to go his and her own way. 
He isn’t worse than many other men — and, Gertrude, 
don’t imagine that he knocks me about. He doesn’t. 
He may have bullied me and laughed at me and swore 
at me — I know a few choice expressions, I can tell you ! 
— but he has never laid a finger on me till to-day — yes- 
terday, I suppose it is yesterday now.” 

The clock on the mantel-piece ticked loudly, and drew 
attention to the flight of time. It seemed to Gertrude as 
if the sound had but at that moment begun. From the 
dressing-table there came the more rapid ticking of a 
watch. Gertrude was reminded by its feverish energy 
of some young thing working ofi its superabundant zeal. 
The slower movement of the clock’s pendulum suggest- 
ed the more staid life of middle age. 

When next she looked at her companion the tears 
were rolling down Lady Beckenham’s face. 

“I said just now,” said Lady Beckenham, “that my 
experience of marriage was that it was a decent name 


214 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


used to cover a hideous thing. I said something of that 
sort ; but oh, Gertrude, what might not marriage be if 
it were with some one one loved? I wish — I wish I 
could have my life over again, and they might talk tliem- 
selves black in the face — not the most brilliant match in 
the world would tempt me. I don’t want to put all the 
blame of my unhappiness upon my husband. Gertrude, 
it is an awful thing to marry one man, loving another.” 

A sudden shiver ran through Gertrude. She lay back 
with closed eyes. 

“ I tried to forget him,” said Lady Beckenham, in a 
very low voice. “ I tried honestly to forget him. I 
prayed. He went abroad, you know, after that time 
when I jilted him — ^jilted him ! — I, who would have died 
for him. But I never forgot him. It is nonsense to 
think one can forget if one has really cared. I never 
forgot him. Perhaps that made me colder to the man 
I was made to marry. Let me try to be fair. My mis- 
ery has not been entirely the result of my husband’s 
infidelity. If he has made no pretence of being faithful 
either in the letter or the spirit, I have broken my vows 
in the spirit if not in the letter. There I am human, 
and I blame circumstance partly, while a stronger woman 
would only blame herself. I am not strong.” 

Gertrude said nothing. At this moment she could 
not have found a steady voice with which to speak. 

Lady Beckenham wiped the tears from her eyes, which 
filled again. She buried her small face in her handker- 
chief. After a time she roused herself. 

‘‘ You have lost all your beauty-sleep for to-night,” 
she said, with a damp smile. ^‘It was scarcely fair to 
keep you up and inflict all my woes upon you. But I 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


215 


had to tell some one — I am so unhappy. Oh, I am so 
unhappy !” 

Her tears fell afresh. Gertrude rose and knelt beside 
the big chair. 

“ I don’t know what to say to you,” she said, gently. 
“ But please know how sorry I am. You do know, don’t 
you? I was always sorry. You poor little thing — I 
wish I could comfort you. I wish I could help you.” 

“You do comfort me, but you can’t help me. No 
one can help me, unless — as I intend, in a weak, uncer- 
tain sort of way — I take extreme measures and sue for 
a divorce. I do not mean to be talked round; but I 
can’t tell ; I dare say I shall be. Aunt Julia is very 
persuasive and very plausible, and I feel like a toy in 
her hands. I wish I had the strength to act for myself. 
She made me marry him ; she will probably prevent my 
divorcing him. I am tired now, and I am going to try 
to sleep and forget the whole thing. I can’t think out 
my position to-night. It is dreadful to be so helpless, 
isn’t it? But it is my nature, and nothing will alter 
that. Good-night, dear ; I am better for my talk.” 

Lady Beckenham rose. She stretched her arms, and 
then clasped her hands behind her head. 

“ What a long time it seems since we laughed ! How 
we laughed ! Well, good-night. I am at least useful as 
a warning, Gertrude. Keep your future in your own 
hands whatever you do.” 

She drew her shawl more closely round her throat 
and moved towards the door. She opened it, and then 
stood still, holding the handle. Gertrude had followed 
her across the room. The night had become colder. 
Lady Beckenham lingered, seeming loath to go. 


216 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


“ And when you marry,’’ she said, speaking now in a 
half whisper, and pausing to peer out into the black pas- 
sage — “when you marry be quite certain — yes, I must 
go now — be quite certain, even if you don’t care for 
your husband, that you don’t care for any one else.” 

Gertrude made no answer. She was standing with 
her thumbs thrust into the girdle of her wrapper. 

Lady Beckenham lingered for a few more minutes in 
a desultory indecision that was characteristic of her, and 
then, after another announcement of her intention of 
going to bed and a short interval of silence, which Ger- 
trude did not break, she went down the passage to her 
room. 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

A TELEGEAM from Graham in the morning announced 
his intention of remaining for another twenty-four hours 
in London. His business necessitated his further pres- 
ence. 

Under any other circumstances than those, the posi- 
tion of which was causing Lady Julia so much anxiety 
and annoyance, she might have been provoked that a 
break should occur in the progress of relations between 
him and Gertrude at a time when matters seemed to be 
nearing a climax. Gertrude’s future, however, sank into 
unimportance beside the gravity of the case of Lady 
Beckenham. Henry and his sister could not resist a 
chuckle at the thought that the bread which Lady Julia 
had cast upon the waters should have returned to her in 
so unpalatable a form. Lady Beckenham herself main- 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


217 


tained an attitude of helpless inactivity. She did not 
even send her maid to fetch her boxes from Lesham. 
She had, it seemed, no power of acting for herself, and 
though she knew that her one chance of happiness lay 
in a passage through the Court of Divorce, she had the 
conviction that she would be able to take no steps in 
the face of her aunt’s opposition. She sat still, feeling 
that something ought to be done. Gertrude, who did 
not wish to interfere, went only to the length of sug- 
gesting that Lady Beckenham, if she was in earnest, 
should communicate with her solicitors. Lady Becken- 
ham did not know the name of the firm ; and, besides, 
she did not know whether she was in earnest. Divorce 
was so dreadful. She did not know whether she could 
ever face all that an institution of proceedings would 
involve. Then she laughed a little at her indecision, 
and after that she cried. 

Henry, in discussing his cousin with Gertrude, said 
that she was a dear little thing, of course ; but the most 
unmitigated little fool he had ever met. 

“ She doesn’t know her own mind for two seconds,” 
he said. “ I dare say Beckenham’s a blackguard ; in- 
deed, I have no doubt of it ; but I had rather be mar- 
ried to almost any one than poor little Kate.” 

Gertrude admitted that Lady Beckenham was some- 
what trying. 

‘‘ But the odd thing about these undecided people is,” 
she added, “ that they infect one with their own uncer- 
tainty. I am absolutely unable to give her any advice. 
For one thing, I don’t think she would take it ; and, for 
another, after ten minutes’ talk with Kate, I see the 
thing from both sides, too.” 


218 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


To the helpless little woman, however, Gertrude was 
all that is kind. She understood her, perhaps, better 
than most people, and she had her confidence. It had 
been something in the nature of a revelation to her to 
learn that Lady Beckenham was still unhappy for her 
little barrister, and, in Gertrude’s mood of the time, it 
added considerably to the interest of her cousin’s story. 
She could not help a certain feeling of irritation at Lady 
Beckenham’s inability to rise to the occasion, but she 
tempered her irritation with pity. The helplessness and 
weakness and indecision were so plainly radical that it 
was useless to expect any powerful coping with a diffi- 
cult situation. Lady Beckenham was fully conscious of 
the defect in her character, and her resigned acceptance 
of it as a fact was at once provoking and pathetic. As 
often as Gertrude found her exasperation ousting her 
sympathy, a glance at the baby face with its bruise, or a 
recollection of the spontaneous laughter of the night be- 
fore, softened her. It seemed to Gertrude that, alone 
with her in her room. Lady Beckenham had presented 
an aspect different from that which she now wore. Af- 
ter the outburst of merriment at her own expense, she 
had talked rationally enough, and Gertrude remembered 
how, with the narration of her sufferings, she had as- 
sumed a quiet dignity of which even her odd garments 
could not rob her. Was not her helplessness only an 
added suffering? From her heart Gertrude pitied her. 

Lady Beckenham sat for the most part in Lady Julia’s 
sitting-room. She felt, and was conscious of looking, 
like some child in disgrace, whose punishment or disci- 
pline had not yet been decided. Her breakfast and her 
luncheon were brought up to her, and she was visited by 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


219 


such of the guests as were sufficiently intimate with her 
to warrant their intrusion to her privacy. Lady St. 
Pancras squeezed her hand or held and patted it. She 
nodded her head and said : 

‘‘We won’t talk of it, my dear. We just won’t talk 
of it. We’ll wait a little, and see what happens. The 
whole subject shall be sealed between us.” 

Notwithstanding this avowed intention, she asked a 
good many questions and gained no little information, 
and when Lady Beckenham had satisfied such curiosity 
as was manifested in the queries. Lady St. Pancras said 
again : 

“We won’t speak of it, dear. We just won’t speak 
of it. We’ll wait a little and see what happens; and I 
am sure when it comes to the time we shall do whatever 
is right. Won’t we, dear?” 

“ I hope so,” said Lady Beckenham, tearfully accept- 
ing the old lady’s portly embrace. 

“ I have no doubt of it,” said Lady St. Pancras ; “ no 
doubt whatever. I know we shall remember that we 
are very young and inexperienced, and we shall take the 
advice of older heads than our own.” 

From which Gertrude, who happened to be present, 
gathered that during Lady Beckenham’s inactivity her 
aunt was not equally inactive. She knew, indeed — and 
Lady Beckenham knew it as well — that the little that 
had been said by Lady Julia to her fugitive niece did 
not necessarily mean that matters were being allowed to 
take their own course. Lady Beckenham had sat during 
the morning in nervous expectation of an interview 
with her aunt — an interview as to the issue of which the 
poor little wife had no doubts whatever. She was as 


220 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


wax in Lady Julia’s hands. But the hours passed, and 
no such interview as Lady Beckenham anticipated took 
place. Her aunt went in and out of the room good- 
humoredly, and made few comments upon the subject 
uppermost in everybody’s mind. She asked most kind- 
ly after her niece’s health and so on, applied a lotion to 
the bruise, thought it was less swollen than before, and 
was, in public at least, generally normal. To her guests 
she was making light of the whole thing. She spoke of 
a little quarrel, a trifling dispute, a box meant for the 
ears of a provoking child, and missing its aim, regrets 
and reconciliations already in progress. Telegrams, 
Gertrude knew, were passing between Eastwood and 
Lesham, and she foresaw clearly the conclusion of the 
whole matter. The guests outwardly accepted Lady 
Julia’s explanations, and probably made their own com- 
ments pretty freely behind her back. Be this as it may, 
later on paragraphs found their way into such of the 
papers as make it their business to chronicle scandal. 

Lady Beckenham, out of suspense with regard to the 
dreadful interview with her aunt, wondered what was 
going to be done. She wished that she was like any 
one else, and competent to act upon her own responsi- 
bility. If she could work herself up into a passion — 
such a passion, for instance, as had nerved and enabled 
her to quit her husband’s house on the previous day — 
there might be some possibility of her asserting her own 
will in deflan ce of that of Lady Julia. But even anger 
seemed to have forsaken her. She did not feel rebel- 
lious. Her wrongs seemed distant, and her hatred 
of her husband lost, in his absence, something of its 
keenness, and failed to rouse her to action. A sort of 


MISS MAXWELL’S AITECTIONS. 


221 


apathy had come over her. She felt utterly alone. Her 
circumstances were scarcely those in which a young and 
unmarried woman could help her, and Gertrude was, at 
Eastwood at least, the only person of her own sex from 
whom she could have sought aid in her trouble. It was 
improbable that Lady Julia would consent to counte- 
nance all the scandal connected with legal proceedings. 
Lady Beckenham told herself that she must have known 
that before she started for Eastwood at all. Then why 
had she come to Eastwood when the strong presence 
of her aunt paralyzed her? Among her friends she 
had many whose houses would have been open to her, 
and who, unbiased by family prejudices, would ably 
have tendered their advice. In the face of this knowl- 
edge she had deliberately taken herself to a very strong- 
hold of the enemy. Here, and she was conscious of it, 
was another instance of her inability to think for her- 
self. Eastwood had been her home before marriage, 
and in the emergency no other refuge suggested itself. 
She was blindly timid. As a child she had been taught 
to swim, but the probability is that if she had now 
been plunged suddenly into deep water she would have 
gone to the bottom with scarcely an effort to save her- 
self. Even in the learning she had required constant 
exhortation from her swimming-master to strike out and 
trust herself to herself. As in things physical, so in 
things moral, she was entirely dependent upon others. 
So dependent did she seem upon approval and encour- 
ao-ement that Gertrude wondered that she should have 
succeeded even indifferently in such duties as must in- 
evitably have fallen to her lot as Lord Beckenham’s 
wife. But Gertrude, who stood in no awe of her aunt, 


323 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


and was fully competent to hold her own and fight her 
own battle, did not realize the numbing effect which 
Lady Julia exercised over the will of her younger niece. 
Lady Beckenham was powerless to shake it off. It was 
magnetic, she thought, this influence of Lady Julia’s, 
and it permeated the house ; consequently poor Kate, 
absolutely susceptible to it, appeared at Eastwood at 
her very weakest. Something of this she said to Ger- 
trude. 

“ I present a very sorry figure, I know,” she said, 
humbly. “ The curious thing is that at Lesham I am 
far better able to fight for myself than here. I can be 
as rude to Beckenham in our quarrels as he is to me, 
and I often get my own way. I have refused to obey 
him in lots of things. You who see me here would 
hardly believe that. But whether you believe it or not, 
it is true. It is Aunt Julia who is making me look 
such a fool. I can’t explain it, and I do not suppose 
she could explain it, either, but she overpowers me. She 
cows me !” 

Gertrude smiled and shook her head, in token that 
she did not understand. 

“ Aunt Julia is very strong, I grant you,” she said, 
“but to me she is too transparent to have any real 
power. I find at Eastwood I can do pretty much as 
I like, and if I couldn’t, I would,” she added, paradox- 
ically. 

“We are differently constituted, you and I,” said 
Lady Beckenham. “When I lived with Aunt Julia, 
I did exactly as I was told, and I suppose I have not 
changed much since then.” 

Then once more Lady Beckenham’s sense of humor 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


evoked another outburst of merriment at her own ex- 
pense. 

“ It is such waste of a black eye, isn’t it ?” she said. 
“It was the one thing I wanted to complete my case. 
And I may never have another.” 

Gertrude joined in the laughter. More than ever she 
felt the difficulty of taking Lady Beckenham’s woes se- 
riously. \ 

The afternoon passed quietly as the morning. Ger- 
trude, at Lady Julia’s suggestion, took her cousin for a 
walk, and at tea Lady Beckenham appeared with the 
rest in the drawing-room. People looked at her curi- 
ously, and expressed their sympathy by their manner. 

It was about six o’clock when the butler came to Lady 
J ulia with some message, which caused her to leave the 
room. Gertrude saw Lady Beckenham grow pale. She 
evidently connected the incident with herself. Gertrude, 
under pretext of showing her some photographs, took 
her cousin into the inner room. There Lady Becken- 
ham clutched her hand. 

“ Gertrude, what shall I do ?” she said, in a frenzied 
whisper ; “ I am certain my husband is here. I am cer- 
tain of it. I am sure he is with Aunt Julia now. She 
will send for me, and I haven’t made up my mind. 
Oh, how I have wasted this day! If I could only 
hide—” 

She began to tremble so violently that Gertrude pull- 
ed a chair forward with her foot, and gently helped the 
shaking form into it. 

“ Kate !” she said, hurriedly — “ Kate, don’t be fright- 
ened I It is not too late. If you are undecided, refuse 
to give an answer yet. Be firm, dear !” 


224 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


‘‘ I can’t,” said Lady Beckenham ; I can’t. Oh, I 
am frightened ! I am frightened ! Why have I let 
things drift all day ? I knew Aunt Julia must be doing 
something when she said so little. I am sure she has 
telegraphed for him. I am sure he is here. If I go 
back, it will all begin again. I have had my chance, and 
I have missed it. Oh, Gertrude, I may have laughed, but 
I am so unhappy ! I am so unhappy !” 

At dinner Lady Julia said : 

“ She is on her way back to Lesham at this moment 
with her husband. It was all very unfortunate, of 
course, but in the end it arranged itself quite amicably 
in a complete reconciliation. Poor Kate is so impulsive. 
I am sure she more than half regretted rushing off here 
in the heat of the moment. He was very contrite, poor 
fellow, for his share in the squabble. I suppose these 
little disagreements must occur sometimes. However, 
I am glad to say they went off quite happily.” 

Gertrude remembered the convulsive and tearful em- 
brace with which her cousin had taken leave of her, and 
she looked sceptical. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

It seemed to Gertrude that the thread of her own 
story had been broken by the events of the past two 
days. There had been, indeed, after the dramatic en- 
trance of the fugitive wife at Eastwood no time for her 
to give much thought to such matters as concerned her- 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


225 


self. Lady Beckenham had naturally engrossed her at- 
tention. As has been said, it was with some difficulty 
that she forced herself to realize the gravity of her 
cousin’s situation. The elements that contributed to 
form Lady Beckenham’s character were so abnormal 
that Gertrude could not accept her case as typical of 
those of such wronged wives as had always enlisted her 
sympathies. After the confidences of the night, when 
Gertrude had been really moved, it was not till just be- 
fore her cousin’s departure that her keenest pity had 
been stirred. In the interval a certain contempt, which 
she could not restrain, had possessed her for the weak- 
ness of a mind that could not compose itself to any 
course of action. But in the inner room, with the in- 
cident of Lady Beckenham’s sudden terror, as she real- 
ized that she had let the precious time slip by, and that 
her husband had been sent for, and had arrived, Ger- 
trude had experienced a deep compassion for her, and a 
sharp remorse for her own share in an indecision that 
had allowed an emergency to arise which the poor little 
wife was unprepared to meet. She could not, of course, 
be responsible for her cousin’s natural failings, but she 
might at least have so discussed matters with her as to 
have insured that Lady Beckenham should be ready with 
her answer in any crisis that might arrive. As it was, 
she had done nothing, and this partly because, as she 
had told her brother. Lady Beckenham had infected her 
with something of her own uncertainty. Henry refused 
to have anything to do with the affair. Lady Julia 
was, of course, on the side of conventionalities. It was 
natural that she did not wish to be party to the wash 
ing of the Beckenham dirty linen, particularly since, at 
15 


226 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


the time of the marriage, she must have known that it 
was anything but spotless. So, thrown back upon her- 
self, and suddenly confronted with a husband who, with 
less or more grace, expressed a certain contrition — the 
admission that he had erred being qualified by an al- 
lusion to extenuating circumstances, which Lady Julia 
declared, indulgently, that she could well conceive — 
Lady Beckenham listened to certain advice which was 
subsequently administered to her by her aunt some- 
what in the form of a command, and submitted to the 
dictates of the only strong will brought to bear upon 
the case. 

Gertrude knew pretty well the state of affairs exist- 
ing between the departing couple, and she smiled quiet- 
ly to herself when she heard it called by the name of 
reconciliation. 

On the third day she was free once more to take up 
the threads of her own life. Then, when she began 
afresh that process of introspection that had become so’ 
much a matter of habit to her, she found that, unknown 
to herself, her feelings had been undergoing a change. 
She happened, in looking for something that she re- 
quired, to open the drawer in which lay France Wood- 
food’s rose. To her great surprise she found herself able 
to look at it without experiencing that sudden and sharp 
pain with which the sight of it had always stabbed her. 
She took up the flower, now so dried and stiff. A faint 
scent still hung about the petals. She held the stalk 
closely, while her thoughts reverted to France Wood- 
ford. What had come to her that she could not see his 
face as clearly as heretofore ? He seemed distant, vague 
— a memory of wLich time has effaced the definiteness 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


227 


of the outlines. She could think of him calmly, as a 
mother can think of a child long dead. For a time she 
was frightened almost at the apparent significance of 
her present state. She knew, and in the early days af- 
ter her awakening had laughed at, the French proverb, 
Amant partly amant gueriP Its teaching had seemed 
to her untrue, futile. Was she going to learn that for 
her, at least, it was a text upon which to preach a ser- 
mon ? She did not like to face the question. She put 
back the flower hurriedly into its place, and locked the 
drawer. Some one spoke of Wilfrid Graham. Ger- 
trude found herself wishing for his return. A thought 
of Brabant occurred to her. It was occasioned by the 
portrait that bore a resemblance to him, and she began 
to wonder whether he was away. Many days had elapsed 
since last she had seen him. Her life seemed mapped 
out in periods, which were dominated by some one lead- 
ing influence. She thought of those ugly days during 
which the shadow of his wild passion had dogged her 
path. A certain morbid interest in his ill-balanced nat- 
ure led her to ponder upon his absence from Eastwood. 
She knew that he had a running invitation to join the 
shooters. That he had not availed himself of it had 
been a relief to her, but it afforded her some surprise. 
Possibly the wish to hear something of his movements 
caused her to direct her mare’s steps to the post-office. 
For once, however, Mrs. Peck was in no mood for gos- 
sip. Gertrude gathered from the appearance of the 
door-way of the shop that something unusual had hap- 
pened. Mrs. Peck was the centre of a small crowd of 
neighbors. She had eyes red with weeping, and she 
held forth at some length. 


228 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


“ Fourteen come New - year’s Day — first of the 
month and first of the year and first of the week, too 
— first day. I took to bed on a Sunday. I remember 
it as well as well. Peck ’ad gone to church, and they 
’ad to send for him, and I remember as well as well, he 
says, ‘Is it a boy?’ Lizer an’ Jane being both girls, we 
was hoping for a boy, and a boy it was. Oh, only to 
think of it !” 

Gertrude made her way to where the woman was 
standing. Half a dozen of the by-standers volunteered 
information. 

“ It’s her Tommy, miss,” said the least diffuse ; “ he’s 
lost — never been home all night, nor been seen nor 
heard of. ’Ave you looked in the well, Mrs. Peck? 
He was always such a one for playing with water.” 

“ Ah, I’d look there,” said another ; “ boys are all 
alike; give ’em a drop of water to wet theirselves with, 
and they’re quite ’appy. I’d look in the well.” 

“P’raps he’s run away to sea,” suggested a third com- 
forter. “My Willie ’ad a boy as done that, and they 
never see him alive again, owing to his being wrecked 
in a storm. Some boys are that set on going to sea, 
ain’t they ?” 

“ ’E’s a big boy of his age,” said another, “ or else he 
might ’a ’ bin kidnapped. But there’s no knowing. 
There’s a lot of rough characters about this time of 
the year, and they might ’a’ drugged ’im, you know. 
It’s enough to frighten anybody. I don’t blame you 
for being upset, Mrs. Peck. I’ve buried four meself, 
and I know what it is. I shall never forget the day the 
baby died, through falling into a tub of scalding water. 
I’ve seen trouble, I ’ave.” 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


229 


“ When did you see your boy last asked Gertrude, 
addressing the postmistress. 

“Four o’clock yesterday, miss. I give him his tea 
with the others, same as usual, and he went out di- 
rectly afterwards. I was minding the shop, and I says, 
‘ Tommy, don’t be out late,’ I says, because I wanted 
him ’elp his father with some sortin’, and he says, ‘All 
right, mother,’ he says, and from that to this I’ve never 
set eyes on him.” 

“ Where is Mr. Peck ?” 

“ Peck’s gone off to Parkhurst to acquaint the police. 
He was always a good boy, was Tommy, though a bit 
wilful. You see, as I always says to Peck, the orfice 
interferes with my domes ticative duties. There was 
Polly, as stunted her growth through eating acid-drops. 
Hever ’ad one out of her mouth, and me too busy to 
notice it, till the doctor drawed my attention to it. Oh^ 
my poor Tommy ! Such a difficulty as I ’ad to rare 
him ! He was delicate from a baby, and was very back- 
ward with his teeth, and not over -strong about the 
pings, which he gets from his father. Peck’s family 
all suffered from chests — mine’s was liver and brain. 
And I thought he’d ’a’ died of whooping-cough ; but he 
had his measles better than any of the other children, 
that I will say, bar Matilda, as has everything light and 
sickens last. An’ such a daring boy he was! Many 
an’ many’s^ the time me ’eart’s stood still in me mouth 
to see ’im a climbin’ after birds’ nesses.” 

“ ’E’s ’ad a fall, you may depend,” said one of the 
comforters, with conviction. “ My ’Arry lamed ’isself 
that way.” 

“ There’s no birds’ nests this time of the year,” said 


230 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


the woman who had “ seen trouble.” “ I think its a 
deal likelier as he’s spiked himself on railings, or p’r’aps 
he’s slipped somewhere and broke his leg, like that man 
did last year on Mr. ’Arwood’s land, and died from ex- 
posure, through laying out all night, and nobody ’earing 
him, for all he ’ollered himself exhausted. 'No, 1 don’t 
wonder at you being anxious, Mrs. Peck. I say its 
enough to make you. I’ve buried four, I ’ave, and I 
know what it is.” 

“ He ain’t in the well,’' said an officious searcher, re- 
turning. 

“ To think of him missing,” said the landlady of the 
King’s Arms, ‘‘and I see him only yesterday, when he 
come for the dinner-beer and served him meself. So 
well he looked, too; for I said to William, I said, ‘He 
gets stronger, don’t he ? More fat in the face V Didn’t 
I, William?” 

“Yes ’m, you did. I remember because I give him 
change for a sixpence.” 

“ That’s true,” said Mrs. Peck, tearfully, “ for I ’adn’t 
a copper in the house.” 

She turned to Gertrude. 

“We’ve been up .all night, miss, his father and me. 
We was expecting him ’orna every minute. Peck made 
certain as he’d gone into Parkhurst, for I give him a 
penny last week, and Lizzie say she knew he wanted to 
buy a whip-top with it. You can’t get only peg-tops 
in the village, so we thought he’d sure to have gone 
to the toyshop ; but ten o’clock come, and then eleven, 
and no Tommy. So I sent Peck in to Parkhurst, and 
he ’ad to ring ’em up at the shop, and he’d never 
been there; and ever since we’ve been scouring the 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


231 


whole place for him. Pve scarcely been able to stir 
meself, because I can’t leave the office; and the baby’s 
teething, and I’m that put about I don’t know what 
to do.” 

Gertrude saw that there was nothing to be done, so 
after administering such comfort as the circumstances 
of the case permitted, she rode away. 

The day was damp and depressing. Like the woman 
who had seen trouble, Gertrude was not surprised that 
Mrs. Peck should be overwhelmed with anxiety. She 
could herself think of no very hopeful explanation for 
the boy’s absence, and, still exercising herself with the 
problem, she came to a place where four roads met. The 
village lay behind her ; Eastwood, by a circuitous route, 
could be reached on the road which faced her, that to the 
right ran past Harwood into Parkhurst, and that to the 
left was a lane little used. The last was least familiar 
to her, and perhaps for this reason she chose it. Pres- 
ently she regretted her choice. The ground was stony, 
loose, and worn at the sides into deep ruts that told that 
the lane had not always been disused. Where trees 
overhung it, Gertrude had to stoop to escape projecting 
branches, and the mare ploughed her way through a 
thick carpet of dead leaves. It was when she had 
stumbled on the bad road that her rider thought of 
turning. But she did not turn. ‘‘The lane is long,” 
Gertrude said to herself, smiling at an association of 
ideas, “and leads — leads where?” 

A minute later she remembered. It led up to an old 
burying-ground on the hill above Fenton, and the ruts 
were the impress of the wheels of numberless hearses. 
What a grewsome thought! The black trappings of 


232 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


death in dismal procession had passed between these 
struggling hedges. Here, perhaps, the driver had had 
to remove the hat with the streaming weepers, and to 
stoop, as Gertrude liad to stoop, to pass beneath this 
arm of oak. The mare stumbled again. How the coffin 
must have been jolted on the stony road, and how, its 
resting-place attained, the empty vehicle must have rat- 
tled back to the place whence it came ! 

The lane began to climb the hill. In the hedges was 
a late and rich harvest of blackberries, and long thorny 
brambles trailed on to the road. A rabbit, of which 
Gertrude caught only the glimpse of its white tuft of 
tail, scampered into an adjoining meadow; then an- 
other and another and another. Banks rose now on 
each side, and they were full of holes. A few steps 
farther on Gertrude found herself in what was almost 
a warren. Babbits were to be seen by the dozen. She 
took her bearings, and concluded that she was on the 
Fenton estate. 

A sudden turn in the road brought the church-yard 
into view. Gertrude rode up to the crumbling wall 
and looked over among the graves. How still it was ! 
Something fell — a bit of cement from a leaning cross. 
The tombstones were moss-grown. Time was eating 
out the inscriptions. In the silence Gertrude almost 
fancied she could hear him at his grizzly work. An in- 
sect in some breaking mortar ticked like the death spi- 
der of a ghost story. Gertrude thought that she had 
read somewhere of the noiseless feast •of worms. In 
this dismal stillness she said to herself that it would have 
let itself be heard. A blight seemed on this acre of 
God. Suddenly a robin sang shrilly from a broken 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


233 


column. Its singing woke no echo. A grave here was 
choked with weeds running riot ; there the grass grew 
long upon a mound. Beside it a heavy slab of granite 
suggested to Gertrude difficulties in the resurrection. 
Yews deepened the sense of gloom that pervaded the 
place. 

A grayness was creeping over the day. The sun was 
hidden in a bank of cloud, and a mist hung now like a 
shroud over the valley. Tlie dampness struck a chill 
into Gertrude’s young bones, and she shivered. That 
she might better see the church she rode a few yards 
farther. Decay — as the vulture the carcase — had 
claimed the building for its own. It was tumbling 
into ruins, and ivy entered at the glassless windows. 
Fallen masonry lay at the foot of the walls. The vane 
upon the tower hung aslant. The roof was the open 
sky. Even as Gertrude watched a stone loosened by 
wind and weather fell from its rotten hold. The mare 
started. There was a little crash, and — silence. Then 
a muffied sound broke the stillness. 

Gertrude was about to move away. She drew rein 
and listened. The sound seemed to come from the 
tombs. It ceased and was renewed — a dull, subdued 
knocking. She rode back to her place by the wall. 
Her mare was restless and pawed the ground ; she 
threw back her ears. Gertrude pacified her with a 
soothing hand, and the animal consented to stand still. 
The sound was heard again — knock, knock, knock. 
Gertrude shivered. The gloom and the dismal sur- 
roundings got a grip of her. She began to think of 
restless souls, of the sleepless dead, of persons buried by 
mistake. 


234 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


The ground was full and disused. Kot a grave had 
been dug for years. The least grewsome, then, of her 
hypotheses was impossible. She was alarmed. It was 
her habit when she only intended, as she expressed it, 
to potter about the place, not to take her groom. She 
was alone now, and several miles from home. True, 
there was a nearer way to Eastwood than tliat by which 
she had come. About a hundred yards farther up the 
lane gave on to a road leading to her home in one di- 
rection, and to Lesborough, the station for Fenton and 
the neighborhood, in the other. She was afraid to re- 
main and loath to go. As she deliberated, with the 
knocking she heard a cry — muffled, buried, but a cry. 
She looked round once more. The sound, despite her 
shapeless fancies, must have some human origin. The 
mist was slowly creeping up the valley. Not a living 
being was in sight. It was plain that whatever answer 
was given to the sounds from the tomb must come from 
herself. She resigned herself to the inevitable and dis- 
mounted. How should she hold the mare ? She looked 
about for a gate or a post. There was neither. She 
led her as far as the road of which I have spoken be- 
fore she found what she sought in the shape of a friend- 
ly sign-post. To this she tethered the animal. She 
looked up and down the road. There was no one to 
be seen. Then, catching up her habit, she retraced her 
steps and entered the garden of the dead. 

The spot was choked with graves. Creepers and ivies 
linked tomb to toinb. Weeds and plants grown wild 
through neglect had sown themselves in a profusion of 
disorder. Here the writing on a stone was hidden by a 
trailing rose. Close by, a wooden cross, black and 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


235 


worm-eaten, slanted over tlie resting-place it stood to 
mark. A few elaborate headstones showed graves of 
the richer sort; but for the most part the simplicity 
of the designs told of obscurity. Quaint epitaphs and 
doggerel rhymes related the virtues of the dead and the 
grief of the mourners. Gertrude picked her way among 
the tangled bines, and on the grass-grown paths, at the 
borders of which, in some places, box had grown in 
uneven heights. Guided by the sounds, she went round 
to the other side of the church. At every step she 
half-expected to be met by a phantom procession. Her 
heated imagination almost conjured a ghastly vision out 
of thin air. 

The sounds seemed now to come from the ground at 
her feet. She looked about her, seeking whence it might 
be possible that they could proceed. 

The mist stole nearer and nearer. The chilliness in- 
creased. The robin had ceased his song, and a dull 
silence brooded over the spot. 

At the base of the west wall of the church Gertrude 
came suddenly upon a flight of steps leading down, it 
seemed, into the ground. The stone was green with 
damp and age. Small ferns grew in the wet crevices. 
A massive door at the foot of the steps led possibly to a 
crypt. Gertrude shuddered when she found that it was 
thence the sounds proceeded. She thought of vampires 
and ghouls, of Amine, who ate grains of rice with a bod- 
kin, and feasted at dead of night on the flesh of corpses. 
Shuddering again, Gertrude drew the skirt of her habit 
more closely round her, and descended the slippery stairs. 
The door was of oak, and heavily studded with nails. A 
rusty key stood in the lock. 


236 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS.- 


And as slie stood before the door trembling, she 
thought — with no sequence of idea, except in so far as 
horror suggests horror — of the man with the white eyes 
who had looked at his wife till she died. She plucked 
up courage and knocked. The answer was a hoarse 
scream and a battering at the panels from within. 

Gertrude took the key, and with both hands and the 
exercise of some strength, she turned it. The door 
grated on its hinges and swung back. As she peered 
into the dense blackness, expecting she knew not what, 
her nostrils were assailed by a close, damp smell, and out 
of the gloom emerged a boy. 

It was Tommy Peck. 


CHAPTER XXX. 

Gertrude had forgotten the lost boy. 

“ Oh, Tommy,’’ she said, “ they are in such a state 
about you at home ! How did you get here ? My 
poor boy, how awful you look ?” 

The last remark was not made without reason. The 
child was pale with fright, and almost beside himself 
with horror and exhaustion. The light seemed to blind 
him. There were channels of tears on his grimy face. 
He spoke in a hoarse voice, that was broken by un- 
governable sobs. His knuckles were sore and bleeding 
from constant knocking at the door of his prison, and 
he had worn holes in the knees of his trousers, through 
which his flesh could be seen, discolored by the green of 
the damp step. 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


237 


He looked over his shoulder continually with wild and 
distended eyes into the crypt whence Gertrude had re- 
leased him. She was looking at him in amazement, only 
by degrees gauging his plight. She gathered disjointed 
snatches from his talk. 

‘‘ Bones and skulls and coffins . . . hours and hours . . . 
yesterday . . . only a rabbit — ” 

He was gasping with his long sobs. 

“ Have you been there all night said Gertrude. 

She waited till he should recover himself sufficiently 
to speak coherently. It seemed as if this would be a 
long process. He sank down on a tombstone, and his 
body was convulsed with the force of the storm of his 
tears. Gertrude laid her hand on his shoulder. 

“ Don’t cry. Tommy,” she said, gently ; ‘‘ don’t cry, 
dear. Tell me all about it. Who shut you in ? I can’t 
hear if you speak so fast. Wait a few minutes, and try 
not to cry. IS’o one shall touch you now.” 

To give him time, she went down the steps, holding 
up her habit from the damp green. She looked into the 
crypt. It was a ghastly prison. She kicked something 
at her foot, and, stooping, her hand rested on a thing that 
was hard and round. She brought it to the light, and 
found that she held a grinning skull. She threw it back 
with an exclamation of disgust, and heard it rattle on the 
stone floor. She returned to the boy. He was sobbing 
less violently. 

How tell me,” she said. She sat down beside him, 
and took one of his hands. It was a dirty hand, but at 
this moment Gertrude’s instincts were too kind to mind 
small inconveniences. 

“ Who shut you in there ?” she asked. Her face, though 


238 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


she did not know it, wore a curious expression. Slie had 
no desire to be unjust. She expected to hear a name, 
and she waited for confirmation of her suspicions, or the 
contrary. 

The boy was diffuse. 

He wasn’t doing much harm. It was only a rabbit, 
and there were scores of ’em — ’undreds and ’undreds. 
What harm was there in catching one? And oh, the 
time he had been shut up — the hours and hours — and 
he had ’ollared and ’ollared, and look at his hands ! Tliat 
was through thumping at the door. What was tlie harm 
of taking a rabbit ? It was only a little un, and he was 
half starved — and oh, the cold — 

“Who shut you in there?” said Gertrude again. There 
was the least shade of impatience in her tone. It was to 
herself that she was speaking when she added, “ There 
is no need for excuses, it does not matter what it was 
for — the punishment was out of all proportion to the 
crime.” 

The boy began to cry again. In truth, he was sick 
and faint from long abstinence. He checked Gertrude’s 
sympathy somewhat by continuing to whine his inno- 
cence. 

“ Who shut you in ?” she said again. 

A gentleman. Tlie boy didn’t know his name. Moth- 
er knew it. He couldn’t remember. But mother knew, 
and they’d summons him. They’d have theTaw of him. 

What was he like? 

The boy couldn’t say, but he had seen him in the shop 
and in the village. He drove through sometimes. 

Gertrude looked at her watch. It was half-past three. 

“ How long have you been there ?” she asked. 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS: 


239 


“I don’t know,” he replied. “ It was about five o’clock 
yesterday. I come up ’ere after tea — ” 

“And you have been here ever since !” Gertrude was 
horrified, and contrite for her lapse of sympathy. “And 
you have had nothing to eat ! Oh, you poor boy ! Can 
you walk? We must get you home. Stop. You shall 
ride, and I’ll walk.” 

She rose to her feet as she spoke. A sight of the 
crypt and of the skull, which had rolled once more to 
the door, suggested to her again the enormity of the 
boy’s punishment. 

“ Do you mean to tell me that he locked you up yes- 
terday, and that he has never been here since ?” 

A footfall sounded near, and Gertrude remembered 
her mare. 

“ I must go,” she said, hurriedly. “ There may be 
tramps about. Come.” 

Her answer was a cry from the boy. She looked up 
and saw George Brabant. For a moment no movement 
was made on the part of any one of the three. Brabant 
had stopped suddenly in his course as he took in the 
situation. Then, ignoring him, she told the boy to fol- 
low her. 

“ Miss Maxwell !” 

Brabant stood in her path. 

“ I have nothing to say to you,” said Gertrude. 

She tried to pass him, but he blocked her way. She 
looked at him then — full in the face — and met his rest- 
less eyes. Something that was appealing in their ex- 
pression suggested the possibility of an extenuating cir- 
cumstance. There could be none, she said tp herself, in 
a case of such fiagrant cruelty. As he met her scorn, 


240 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


whatever there was of pleading in his expression van- 
ished. He stood aside, and Gertrude went by in silence. 

A cry from the boy made her turn. Brabant held 
him by the arm. 

“ Let him go,” said Gertrude. 

“ Then listen to me.” 

I shall not, I don’t want to hear anything. There 
is nothing that you could say that could mitigate your 
offence. Let the boy go. You are hurting him. Let 
him go, I tell you.” 

The boy began to whine. 

“My arm, my arm ! He’s breaking my arm. Let me 
go !” 

Brabant laughed and gave the child a jerk, which 
brought from him a ready scream of pain. A certain 
irritation at the boy’s whimpering served only to add 
fuel to the flame of Gertrude’s wrath. She could have 
shaken Tommy Peck herself for his miserable whining. 
She did not think, in truth, that Brabant was at this 
moment hurting him, but the result of her mixed feel- 
ings was a consuming anger towards the man who w^as 
the chief link in the chain of circumstances binding the 
present situation. 

“ Let him go,” she said, breathlessly. 

She was very pale, and her lip was quivering with 
suppressed excitement. The riding-whip which she un- 
consciously held was shaking. He was looking at it. 
She saw that he was looking at it, and he laughed oddly. 
She saw the trembling of the whip, and remembered a 
case similar to the present, but inverted. It would have 
relieved her to lay a smarting cut across his insolent 
face. 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


241 


The mist had crept up to the wall of the graveyard. 
The valley was hidden. A sudden sense of isolation 
struck Gertrude. 

“ Let the boy go,” she said, through thinning lips. 

“Will you hear me?” 

“ 1 ^ 0 .” 

It was a conflict of wills. 

Again, with contrition, Gertrude remembered the 
boy’s dire plight. She thought of the terrors of his 
prison. He must be faint with hunger. What wonder 
that he presented so miserable a spectacle of whining 
fear? 

“Haven’t you been cruel enough?” she said, in as 
quiet a voice as she could command. “Eemember what 
you have done. He has been in that awful place for 
nearly twenty-four hours. He must be half dead with 
hunger and exhaustion. Have some pity on him.” 

“ Will you hear me ?” 

“Ho.” 

“ Then the boy remains hungry.” 

“You coward!” said Gertrude. She was paler than 
before. 

“As you like.” 

There was a pause. 

“ He is starving,” said Brabant. He looked down at 
young Peck. “ It is unkind of the lady not to let you 
go, isn’t it? You have had a dreadful time, haven’t 
you ? It is unkind of her to prolong it. Don’t you 
think it is ? They are probably terrified about you at 
home. They think you are dead, most likely. I dare 
say they are hunting for you high and low. Your 
mother is probably in the most terrible suspense ; but 
16 


242 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


what is all that in comparison with lowering one’s 
pride ? It is a fine thing, pride. I dare say you are 
aching all over from the damp of the crypt. I see there 
is a skull down there. You had that as a plaything all 
night and all day. What a time you must have had ! 
Did you find any bones to set up for ninepins ? Ah, 
that must have been fun ! But after it all you are a 
little tired, perhaps, and you would like to go home !” 

“ Let me go !” cried the boy ; “ let me go !” 

He began to struggle, and he kicked his tormentor’s 
legs. 

“Stop that!” said Brabant, sternly, and he jerked 
again the arm he held. “ It is no good fighting, you 
know, and your going does not rest witli me. You 
would not think, to look at Miss Maxwell, tliat she could 
be so cruel, would you ?” 

The child whimpered, and covered his face with his 
sleeve. 

The mist entered the church-yard. Gertrude thought 
of her mare. The afternoon was closing in. It would 
soon be dark. 

“ Don’t exasperate me,” Gertrude said, in a low voice. 
She was breathing very deeply. He saw the rise and 
fall of her bosom. 

“ What happens when you are exasperated ?” 

He was smiling. His light and restless eyes wandered 
about her person. 

“ Let him go!” she said again. 

“ That is for you to do,” he answered. 

“ Let him go !” said Gertrude. 

“ Let him go !” said Brabant. 

It was then that Gertrude could no longer control 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


243 


herself. She sprang forward and cut him across the face 
with her whip. A mark like a narrow white ribbon 
came out upon his flesh. It extended from his left eye, 
which miraculously escaped being struck and blinded, 
over his nose, and onto his right cheek. In the first 
momentary agony of the smart he loosened his hold on 
the arm he held, and the boy darted away. With a 
sickening sense of shame Gertrude realized what she 
had done. 

Tommy Peck stood for a second at the wall of the 
church-yard and looked back. Then he ran ofl in the 
direction of the village, and Gertrude knew that she 
was alone with Brabant. 

My God, you hurt me !” he said. 

The pain for the moment must have been madden- 
ing. He caught her wrists and pinioned them. 

‘‘You shall hear me now,” he said; “you shall hear 
me whether you like it or not. You’ve made a devil of 
me, but you shall hear what I have to say.” 

There was a struggle. Gertrude tried to wrench 
away her hands, but he held them tightly. With her 
knee she pushed against him, trying in vain to free her- 
self. She was frightened now. They staggered to- 
gether a few steps along the path. Gertrude tripped 
on the skirt of her habit and both fell onto a sloping 
bank — he above and she below. 

She tried to regain her feet. His weight and his 
strength prevented her. He rose to a kneeling position, 
still holding her down. His eyes were no longer rest- 
less. Their look was concentrated on her own. She 
made a desperate resistance. 

“It is no good,” he said; “you shall not move till you 


244 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS; 


have heard what I have to say. You’ve made a devil 
of me. You would not hear by fair means, and you 
shall by foul.” 

She saw that it was useless to struggle. She called 
“ Tommy !” loudly. 

“ The young of his class are not distinguished for 
their valor or their gallantry,” said Brabant; “he has 
made off as fast as his legs can carry him.” 

Gertrude, powerless to move, and realizing that she 
was at the mercy of a madman, began to calculate dis- 
tances. Even supposing the boy sent help, it could not 
arrive for at least an hour. She thought of the mare. 

“ This is horrible,” she said, in a choking voice. 
“ Let me get up.” 

“ Keep still,” he said ; “ you shall hear me.” 

“ Let me get up,” said Gertrude, “ and I will listen 
to you. I promise I will listen.” 

“ Ko,” said Brabant, “ you shall stay as you are. I 
will not move an inch till I have told you what I have 
to say.” 

Gertrude groaned, 

“ You are a coward,” she said, brokenly. 

“Am I'f’he said. “ Well, perhaps I am; I don’t 
know. You judge me by ordinary standards, and you 
forget that my case is exceptional. I am now, as it 
were, outside the law. I am taking what you will not 
give. I can’t expect you to understand me. You took 
the worst view of my conduct just now in connection 
with that boy. You let the bare facts speak their hard- 
est against me. You were ready to think evil of me. 
Well, the facts were bad enough, but they were not 
quite so black at you were prepared — as you wished — 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


245 


to think. It is perfectly true that I shut the lad into 
that place. The keepers have been complaining of 
poachers, and I caught the boy myself setting a snare. 
I am not a very equable sort of person, as you know. 
I was angry — angrier, perhaps, than I need have been, 
and I thought to give him a lesson that he would not 
be in a hurry to forget. I locked him into the crypt, 
meaning to leave him there for an hour or two at the 
most. Well, you know what happens when man pro- 
poses. I should think in disposing such a line of ob- 
stacles had not often been laid out to frustrate a fellow’s 
intentions. I am living at Fenton alone this year. I 
have had no parties for the shooting, and I am keeping 
up a small establishment of servants. When I got to 
the house I was met by two of the women screaming. 
Dalton, my man, was dead drunk, and he was rushing 
about the house with a chopper. He has been a heavy 
drinker for some time, and I had threatened to send 
him off more than once, but I let him stay on because 
he had been with me so long. There happened to be 
no other man in the house, except one of the grooms, 
who is a poor little chap, and not good for much out- 
side his own work. Everything had gone wrong. I 
had sent my coachman and another groom up to town 
on some business connected with the new stables I am 
building. I dismissed Win ton, my butler, last week. 
The gardeners do not live on the place. I had a pleas- 
ant time of it, I can tell you. The women were hyster- 
ical. I was up all night with Dalton. He had delirium 
tremens, and when 1 had sent the groom for the doctor 
there was no one to stay with him but myself. It was 
morning before the doctor arrived. He had been away 


246 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


from home, and the messenger rode backward and for- 
ward over the country for him.” 

He paused for a few moments. The mist was in the 
church-yard now. Brabant’s eyes still held Gertrude’s. 
The mark of the whip disfigured him. It was swollen 
now, and seemed to divide his face. 

‘‘ After that,” he continued, “ I fell asleep. It was a 
hideous trick which my ill-luck played rne. I slept till 
half an hour ago, when I woke and remembered. I 
rushed up here to let the boy go. The rest you know.” 

Gertrude had heard in silence. When he had finished 
speaking she made another effort to rise. His weight 
hurt her. His face was close above hers. He tightened 
his hold of her hands, which he held against her breast. 
He could feel the tumultuous beating of her heart. 
His face terrified her. The mark of the cut was slowly 
changing color. It became from deadliest white an 
angry red. 

“ Let me get up !” she said again, desperately. 

He made no answer. 

Her eyes filled with tears. He bent his head and 
kissed them. She saw the wet on his moustache. 

“Keep still,” he said; “ I can feel your heart beating. 
How it beats. It knocks my hands — it is I who have 
made it beat — that is something. How I love you — Kow 
I love you! Do you know what beautiful eyes you 
have? I can see deep, deep down into them through 
your tears. Your hat is falling off ; that is so that I 
may see your hair. Oh, your dear hair I I have longed 
to kiss it as I am going to kiss it now. How crisp it 
is ! I knew how it would feel against my mouth. How 
white and smooth your forehead is. Your ears are 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


247 


beautiful. I should like to kiss them, but I cannot 
without moving, and then you might get free. Oh, 
your lips — your lips !” 

He caressed them lightly with his own. Gertrude 
groaned again. With a sense of horror she felt herself 
growing weak. 

“ I appeal to you as a man to let me go,” she said, des- 
perately. 

“ Ho,” he whispered ; ‘‘ I shall not let you go yet.” 

“ I am a girl,” she said, “ I am not as strong as you. 
I am hideously ashamed of having struck you. I shall 
remember it all my life. I am sorry — oh ! sorry — and 
ashamed. Let me go. I will think kindly of you always.” 

“ It is too late,” he said, in a whisper. “ After this 
you will never think kindly of me again. It would be 
impossible. I am behaving like a devil and — a cad. But 
I cannot help it. This is the end, you know, the end of 
everything for me — ” 

He broke off. She wondered, vaguely, what he meant. 

“And as to thinking kindly,” he continued, after a 
pause, “what is that? You would withhold yourself. 
You would belong to some one else ; and at this mo- 
ment, as far as physical strength can avail anything, you 
belong to me. You are mine absolutely, so that — ” 

He lowered his voice to a whisper, and she did not 
catch the words that followed. She only knew that her 
fears were doubled. 

There was silence in the church-yard. Gertrude saw 
the mist gathering itself to a visible deepness on the nap 
of Brabant’s coat, and hanging like a white shroud round 
the graves. The dismal afternoon insisted on thoughts 
of death. 


248 


MISS MAXWELLIS AFFECTIONS. 


A sound broke the stillness. It was the distant roll 
of wheels — so distant at first that probably only the in- 
tense alertness of Gertrude’s senses enabled her to hear 
it. With the seconds it came nearer. She held her 
breath. Brabant was speaking again. 

“ Why couldn’t you listen before ?” he said, in a low 
voice ; “ then you would not have driven me to an exer- 
cise of brute force. Well, I said you should hear me, 
and you have heard me. ITow I wonder what I have 
gained; your everlasting hatred I suppose? I have done 
for myself forever, but — you don’t know what I have 
gone through. Gertrude, I have been driven to this. 
Oh, my God ! if I could make you understand ! Why 
couldn’t you care for ine? You could have changed 
me — ” 

Gertrude did not answer. She was counting the mo- 
ments and listening to the approaching sound. Brabant 
did hot appear to hear it. Her fear was that when he 
did he would place his hand over her mouth. 

Suddenly Brabant put a question to her. 

“ Could you ever forgive my conduct of to-day ?” he 
said. 

Gertrude shook her head. 

“ Think what you are saying,” he said, in a curiously 
intense voice. “ Could you ever forgive me ? I admit 
everything. I have behaved like the veriest cad on 
God’s earth. I deserve no pity. I am not worthy to 
touch your hand again, or to darken respectable doors. 
But, think before you answer — could you ever forgive 
me?” 

Gertrude shook her head again. “ I could never for- 
give you,” she said, trembling. 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


249 


The moment had come. She could hear the wheels 
and the sound of hoofs close at hand on the Lesborough 
road. She gathered her forces for a desperate struggle. 

To her surprise she found herself free. The market 
cart from Lesborough was allowed to pass, and further- 
more Gertrude found Brabant helping her into her saddle. 

“ Good-bye,” he said, still in the same serious tone. 

She made no answer. 

“ You meant what you said — you can never forgive 
me?” 

“ I can never forgive you.” 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

Gertrude appeared at dinner as usual tliat evening. 
The news of the loss and the finding of Tommy Peck 
was by that time public property. Gertrude gave her 
version of the finding of him with reservations. 

“Mrs. Peck is furious,” said Lady Julia. “I am not 
surprised.” 

Graham, who had arrived during the afternoon at 
Eastwood, and was a keen sportsman, said something 
about poaching from his own point of view. 

“ Still, I suppose nothing would justify so summary 
and cruel a punishment,” he added. 

“ Mr. Brabant meant to let the boy go,” said Ger- 
trude ; “ it was a chapter of accidents which resulted in 
the imprisonment all night. What could have been more 
unforeseen than all that happened at Fenton?” 

Graham had not heard this part of the story. Ger- 


250 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


trude was sitting next to him, and she gave him a short 
summary of that which she had refused herself to hear. 

“ That alters the case a bit,” said Graham. He was 
looking at Gertrude, and noting her extreme pallor. 

“ It seems to me to mitigate the offence,” she an- 
swered. 

“Nothing could mitigate the offence,” said Lady Julia. 
“ It was an unpardonable piece of cruelty.” 

“As matters were ordained,” said Gertrude, hotly, 
“ Mr. Brabant did not intend — ” 

# 

“ You take his part !” said Lady St. Pancras. 

“ I only wish to be just,” said Gertrude. 

There was a chorus of condemnation. A general ar- 
gument followed. Graham, looking at the beautiful girl 
beside him, listened in silent admiration of her, and Ger- 
trude, to her lasting thankfulness in the light of subse- 
quent events, carried the remembrance, and will carry it 
to the day of her death, that, despite all that had taken 
place between them, she had on this memorable even- 
ing espoused the cause of the unhappy wretch from 
whom she had parted a few hours back, and at whose 
hands she had suffered such indignities in the misty 
graveyard. 

The talk rolled off to other matters. Graham had 
seen a play during his absence. He spoke of it. 

“ I went because I had to be in town, and I did not 
know how to fill my time.” 

He saw that she was listening with an effort. Her 
eyes wandered round the room, and were attracted again 
and again to the picture vrhich resembled Brabant. 
With her memory of his face as she had seen it that af- 
ternoon, the likeness was more than ever striking. 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


251 


“ I can’t get it out of my head,” she said. She seemed 
to be speaking to herself. She realized suddenly that 
she had spoken aloud. Graham saw her look again hur- 
riedly at the picture, and he drew his own conclusions. 
He said nothing at the time, and Gertrude asked him to 
tell her about the play. He was wondering what had 
happened during his absence. He had heard, of course, 
of the Beckenham affair. Lady St. Pancras had made 
it her pleasurable duty to inform him of the little 
scandal. 

‘‘Julia took it wonderfully,” she told him ; “arranged 
the reconciliation, gave Kate good advice, and sent her 
home with her husband. And now the less said about 
the whole thing the better. Of course, people will talk, 
and you know one can’t help remembering that it must 
all reflect upon Julia herself, who made up the match, 
and must have known as well as possible at the time. 
Everybody did know. Beckenham’s life has been a 
pretty open book. I hear the goings on at Lesham be- 
fore he married were — something ! However, it is all 
satisfactorily settled, and the Divorce Court avoided — 
and all’s well that ends well, isn’t it ?” 

“ I don’t know,” said Graham, with his frank smile. 

In answer to Gertrude, he said the piece he had seen 
was well acted, but disappointing. He spoke of the plot. 
It was in some sort analogous to that of “ Auld Bobin 
Gray.” 

“ But Eobin Gray was young in this case, and the girl 
thought that she cared for him — and she would have 
cared for him if the lover had not come back.” 

“And the end?” said Gertrude; “the end ?” 

“ That was left to us to work out for ourselves. The 


252 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


curtain fell on the return of the lover — rich, in a posi- 
tion to marry. You see, the play was very modern. It 
was as unsatisfying as Ibsen.” 

Dinner came to an end. Lady Julia proposed a gam- 
ble. She had written for a roulette, and it had that 
morning arrived. She asked Lord St. Pancras not to 
stop long in the dining-room. Henry must come and 
arrange the table, and count his money for the bank, 
which he was to keep with his aunt. 

Lord St. Pancras, who liked to linger over his port, 
grumbled good-temperedly when a message from Lady 
Julia informed him that all was ready and the ladies 
waited in the smoking-room. The men filed across the 
hall and fiocked round the table. Lady Julia, with a 
certain business-like air, and her money counted into lit- 
tle piles in front of her, sat impatiently waiting to begin. 
Henry, with half an inch of a blunt pencil and the back 
of an envelope, was, as she expressed it, fogging out his 
accounts. 

“ I should have done it in half the time myself,” she 
said ; “ but then I should have taken the trouble to get a 
proper pencil, and I should not have used the back of 
an envelope.” 

“Don’t talk. Aunt Julia,” said Henry; “you inter- 
rupt me.” 

“Look at his pencil!” said Lady Julia. “Did you 
ever see such a stump? For goodness’ sake lend him 
one — one of you. That thing is getting on my nerves.” 

Henry refused several proffered loans. He brought 
his calculations to a satisfactory issue. 

Gertrude, by way of a preliminary canter, spun the 
cylinder. The ball, with a pleasant rattle, danced in and 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


253 


out of the holes. At hazard, Gertrude touched with her 
hand Kouge, Impair, and the second six numbers. Nine, 
red, turned up. Graham was watching her. 

“ I wish we had been playing,” she said ; “ I should 
have won on all three.” 

“ Follow your luck,” he said; smiling. 

Again Gertrude sent the noisy ball on its wanton 
course among the revolving holes. 

“I shall try a single number for thirty-five times my 
imaginary stakes — nine.” 

Nine it was. 

Let us begin,” said Gertrude, with sparkling eyes. 
As she spoke, she preferred a sovereign to the bank for 
change. Lady Julia pushed over to her one of the piles 
of silver which in methodical array lay before her. 

The game began. In a short time Gertrude had some 
gold among her silver. She was elated. She forgot 
Brabant and the misty graveyard. Graham watched her 
play. She won repeatedly. He took up his position 
behind her chair. When he stooped to place his stakes 
on the table he touched her shoulder. 

At ten o’clock Harwood came in. He had been din- 
ing at the Yicarage, and had made an early escape. He 
looked round the table. His eyes paused in their sur- 
vey at Gertrude’s little heap of coins. The number that 
Lady Julia announced in her metallic voice added to the 
girl’s pile, and also to the money which Graham was 
winning. He was following Gertrude’s fortunes. Each 
time that she won she looked up and exchanged a smile 
with him. 

“ You are getting on well, Miss Maxwell,” said Har- 
wood. 


254 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


“ So far,” said Gertrude. She waited till the bank 
had scooped up its winnings and paid its debts, and then 
she laid her fresh stakes on the table. 

“ I have no luck of my own to speak of,” said Har- 
wood, “ so I must borrow some one else’s. I am going 
to trust myself to yours.” 

He staked as she had staked, and Graham also. 

“ As you like,” said Gertrude, “ but be careful. The 
luck may change. Be careful !” 

The ball rattled, and was silent. 

“Twenty-one, red,” said Lady Julia. 

Gertrude and her followers scored again. Lady St. 
Pancras, who was playing with pennies, looked up plain- 
tively. 

“ There !” she said, hopelessly. “I have kept to jpasse 
and red nearly every time till this, and just because I 
thought I would try manque and black, the opposites 
turn up. The time before that I tried the second doz- 
en, and the number was in the first. It is ver}’- disheart- 
ening.” 

“How much have you lost?” asked her husband — 
“fourpence ?” 

“ One and tenpence,” said Lady St. Pancras, after 
the calculation involved by taking the twopence which 
she held from the two shillings with which she had 
started. 

“You are too impetuous. Aunt Betty,” said Graham. 
“I hold my breath when I see you play so incautiously.” 

“It gives me a cold shiver down my spine to see you 
so reckless,” said Henry, gravely. 

Lady St. Pancras staked her two remaining coins, and 
lost them. 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


255 


“It is a dreadful gambling game,” she said; “and I 
am not sure that it isn’t very wrong.” 

She looked at Gertrude, who was gathering in fresh 
gains. 

“You’ll lose,” she said, cheerfully; “I won once my- 
self. Mark my words, dear, you’ll lose it all presently.” 

Gertrude laughed. She had a heightened color now, 
and her eyes were very bright. Graham remembered 
her pallor at dinner. Lady Julia, in one of the inter- 
vals between her duties as joint banker with her neph- 
ew, looked round the table. She sighed impatiently as 
she noted her niece’s beauty. She had a shrewd sus- 
picion that it was not Graham who was dilatory. He 
was looking down at the girl’s soft hair. The light of 
the candles caught here and there a single thread, and 
showed how fine was its texture. For a whim, she had 
to-night brushed back the locks on her forehead, and 
had parted her shining hair, and it was twisted loosely 
at the back of her head. She was beavutiful enough to 
to be, when she wished it, unfettered by the trammels 
of fashion. Graham found himself marvelling at the 
delicate whiteness of that straight parting. Her dress 
was, as usual, very simple, and very perfect of its kind. 
To a girl of less notable charm its plainness would have 
been trying. 

The ball rattled, and lay still in a hole. Gertrude 
watched the slackening revolution of the cylinder. 

“ I believe I am going to lose this time,” she said to 
Graham. 

“ Twenty-six — black,” said Henry Maxwell, and Ger- 
trude and Graham and Harwood saw their stakes swept 
up by the bank. 


256 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


“Take care!’’ said Gertrude, my luck is going to 
leave me.” 

She doubled her stakes and lost. 

She looked at the two men who were playing as she 
played. 

“ Leave me in time,” she said, in a curiously earnest 
voice. “Leave me in time. My luck has gone. I shall 
not bring you any good.” 

Harwood said he would try a system of his own ; but 
Graham said nothing, and Gertrude saw that he contin- 
ued to follow her lead. 

It was true that the luck had changed. Gertrude saw 
her pile dwindle. Lady St. Pancras looked on with in- 
terest. Graham stooped over Gertrude to place his 
money beside hers on the table. 

“ Be warned,” she said, in a low voice ; “ be warned in 
time.” 

He only smiled, and with careful aim threw down his 
coins as he had intended. Gertrude saw that they were 
the last of the money which he had taken out to play 
with. 

“ And if you lose it you are ruined,” she said, half 
laughing. 

“ I am ruined,” he said, with a smile. 

The bank swept up his stakes. He took a note from 
his pocket-book. A clock struck twelve. Lady St. 
Pancras was yawning. Her husband had ceased to play 
and was lighting a cigar. 

“ This must be the last turn,” said Lady Julia. 

There was a cry for the usual warning of three before 
the last, but Lady Julia was firm. 

Gertrude had reduced her hoard to a single coin. 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


257 


“ At least, I have lost, too, she said to herself. 

The ball rattled noisily, jumping from side to side of 
its revolving prison like a bird in a small cage. A sud- 
den inspiration came to Gertrude, and she laid her coin 
on Zero. She looked up for Graham and saw that he 
was changing a note. When he returned to his place 
the ball was silent, and the game was made. 

“ Why weren’t you in time she said. “ I have an 
idea that I am going to win back what I have lost — yes, 
with thirty-six chances against me.” 

Henry raised his head to the numbers. 

“ Zero,” he said. 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

Lady St. Pangeas rose with alacrity. She had lost 
two shillings and her beauty-sleep. Her husband had 
drawn his chair over to the fire and was smoking com- 
placently. Lady Julia and Henry were settling up the 
affairs of the bank with some satisfaction and a consid- 
erable amount of argument. 

Gertrude, watching her aunt keenly counting up her 
winnings, thought of the poor little wife at Lesham. 
Lady Beckenham’s troubles seemed to have left small 
impression upon the mistress of Eastwood. She had 
averted scandal, and could think of other things. Har- 
wood came from a group that was standing round a 
table whence proceeded the sound of the clink of glass 
and the splashing of soda-water. 

“Your system?” said Gertrude. 

17 


258 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


I finished as I began,” he answered. In the long- 
run I neither won nor lost.” 

“ Things go smoothly for you,” said Gertrude ; no 
gains, no losses — that is the best fortune, after all.” 

It struck Harwood that she was not speaking alto- 
gether of the game. If she had any further intention, 
however, he did not grasp it. Graham came up. 

“ Why did you not follow Mr. Harwood’s example ?” 
Gertrude asked him. ‘‘He left me in time. I told 
you I should bring you no good. I lost you everything, 
you see, and then in the end — I won myself.” 

“ You could not help that,” said Graham, smiling. 

“Ho, I could not help that,” said Gertrude; “and I 
told you I should bring you no good.” 

Harwood put down his glass and said that he must be 
going. Gertrude and Graham and one or two others 
who were lingering, loath to go to bed, followed him 
into the hall. Some one opened the front door. The 
mist was gone. Moonlight bathed the steps and the 
gravel. Henry, who had finished his banking and was 
mischievous, seized a shawl from a peg, and, surprising 
his sister, threw it over her head, pushed her out on to 
the drive, and shut the door. Gertrude waited com- 
placently till he chose to open it, and greeted him with 
a handful of damp grass from a small heap which 
by the , carelessness of the gardener, who thought of 
nothing but orchids, stood at the edge of a recently- 
mown border. A little scuffle ensued. The others 
joined in the affray. Cushions and rugs flew about the 
hall. 

Lady Julia remonstrated with Henry, who seemed to 
be ringleader, but a timely down - pillow from one of 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


259 


the lounges, thrown by her nephew with precise aim, 
checked her expostulation, and having seen that there 
was nothing likely to be broken, and that among such 
of her guests as were playing at being children, there 
was at least one married woman to relieve her of any 
duties of chaperonage, she threw the cushion back at 
Henry and went up to bed. 

Lady St. Pancras, thinking over her lost two shillings 
as she prepared for her couch, wondered what all the 
noise was about. 

‘‘ I think they must be romping in the hall,” said her 
maid, in possible explanation. 

Quite suddenly the sounds ceased, and there followed, 
after a short interval, the banging of a door. 

^Lady St. Pancras and her maid went to the window. 

Why, if they aren’t all going out for a walk !” said 
the young woman. 

Is Mr. Graham with them ?” 

“ Yes, my lady.” 

“ And Miss Maxwell ?” 

They’re walking together. How the ladies ’ll mess 
their shoes !” 

But the ladies had had forethought, and they had 
run up to their rooms and put on boots when Henry 
suggested that in a mass they should see Harwood on 
his way. Ho one was sleepy ; the night after the dull 
and foggy day was light and fine ; the proposal had 
been hailed with enthusiasm. How the moon lit up 
the late autumn night! Gertrude thought of other 
moons she had known, and they brought their attendant 
memories. Again she thought of France without pain, 
and — she was deceived. 


260 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


^^Have you nothing to say to me?’’ asked Graham, 
after a silence. 

It was not the moonlight, as he at first supposed, that 
made Gertrude’s face appear so deadly pale. All the 
excitement that had during the game of chance lent to 
it so brilliant an animation seemed to have left her, and 
in its place a heavy weight of anxiety weighed upon 
her spirit. 

“ I think I have a great deal to say to you,” she an- 
swered, presently, “ and I don’t know how to say it. How 
long have you been away ? It seems a long, long time.” 

‘‘ Two days,” he said, smiling. 

It seems much longer. These two days have been 
crammed with incident. Well — I missed you. I missed 
you more than I should have thought possible. It was 
a sort of shock to me to see your place empty that 
night, and to hear that you had gone away. I felt lone- 
ly, and — I thought of you a great deal — ” 

There was another silence. Graham did not break it. 
He waited for her to continue. 

“ You know about Lady Beckenham ?” she said. 

I have been told something of what took place.” 

“ She was made to marry her husband,” said Ger- 
trude ; “ Aunt Julia made her. I dare say you know a 
good deal about him. I want you to put all that aside. 
Suppose him a model husband. Do you know that 
even then neither of them would be happy ?” 

“ Because ?” 

“ Because — oh, I know I can trust you, and in telling 
you I am not betraying her confidence — because she 
cared for some one else before she married, and she 
cares for him still.” 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


261 


There was a long pause. It was filled by the voices 
of the noisy party in front. 

“ Why did you tell me of that play Gertrude said, 
suddenly. ‘‘ The play that suggested ‘ Eobin Gray.’ 
Why did you tell me? I wish you had not. It was 
like a second warning. Oh, I wish you had not !” 

‘‘Will you tell me something?” said Graham, gently. 
“ Is it Brabant that you care for ?” 

“ Mr. Brabant ? — that I care for ? Oh no, no, no ! 
A thousand times, no ! What made you think that ?” 

Gertrude shuddered. 

“ Something you said at dinner — ” 

“Oh no,” said Gertrude ; “ no. I only wanted to be 
just. If you knew — I have brought him ill enough. 
I could not hear him condemned unfairly.” 

The tears started to her eyes. She had put the events 
of the day from her ; the rattle of the roulette ball had 
drowned the words she had heard; the interest of 
watching the numbers had shut out the memory of the 
wretched face with its angry seam of red. Ah, that 
seam ! The cut on her wrist was avenged, but at what 
a cost ! 

“It is the other way,” she said, miserably, “ and I 
have brought him nothing but evil.” 

The tears were rolling down Gertrude’s cheeks. She 
turned her head to hide them, but Graham put his 
hands gently on her shoulders and forced her to face 
him. 

“ Gertrude,” he said, “ what do you wish of me ? 
Shall I go away ? I will do as you tell me.” 

“ I don’t know what to tell you,” said Gertrude, blank- 
ly. “I don’t know what to tell you. As God hears 


262 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


me, I want to do wliat is right, but I don’t know my- 
self. Listen to me. At first when he went — ^you know 
who I mean — no, you don’t know, but you understand 
— I could not think of him without being miserable. I 
could not go to any place where I had seen him without 
pain. I could not look at — at anything that was his 
without a sort of despair. Well — he didn’t care for me, 
though sometimes I thought he did ; and he has been 
gone some months. I haven’t forgotten him. I never 
shall forget him ; but I am not unhappy for him as I 
was — ” 

‘‘ Where is he ?” 

“I don’t know. In America, perhaps. He had a 
ranch.” 

Gertrude smiled through her tears. 

“ Do you know there was a time when that word — I 
can’t describe what I mean — it made my pulses beat.” 

‘‘ Shall I go, Gertrude ? The answer must come from 
you.” 

“ Don’t leave it to me,” said Gertrude. “ Indeed, in- 
deed, I don’t know myself. If you go, I shall miss you 
horribly — horribly. I think I do care for you. I know 
I care for you. But think of to-night. What sorry 
luck I brought you ! Oh, Wilfrid ! I don’t know what 
to say to you! I respect you so much. You are im- 
measurably my superior, and — yes, I care for you — oh, 
I like you — ” 

Could you love me, Gertrude ?” 

‘‘ I know I could love you. I should have loved you 
if you had been first. I — I think I love you now.” 

‘‘ Then, shall I stay ?” said Graham. 

A star shot across the sky. 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


263 


“ If he came back said Gertrude, fearfully. 

There was a long pause. Then Graham, after a strug- 
gle for patience, spoke. 

“ Gertrude, you must answer me definitely,” he said. 
“ Things have gone far enough with me already ; but I 
suppose, for one’s peace of mind, they could go further, 
and if you will not consent to marry me I should like 
to go away soon. I know from even my short acquaint- 
ance with you the strong hold you have over me, but if 
it is to lead to nothing it must not be strengthened. I 
was attracted to you at once. I had heard of you for a 
long time. You can understand,” with a smile, “that 
my aunt has not left this stone unturned. She sang 
your praises without intermission. I wondered about 
you, and I formed ideas which fell very short of reality, 
as I found when I saw you. I fell in love with you, as 
many others seem to have done, and I offer you the 
strongest love I have ever felt. You must answer me, 
Gertrude.” 

The subdued sound of the voices that broke the still- 
ness of the night showed that an appreciable distance 
had been measured between those who were in reality 
accompanying Harwood on his homeward way and the 
two who stood facing each other. 

“ Shall I go, or stay ?” said Graham. 

“ You know what you know.” 

“ Will you try to forget him — to give your whole 
heart to me ?” 

“ I will try.” 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 


The recollection of Brabant haunted Gertrude like 
an ugly dream. In the silence of her own room it was 
not of her promise to Graham that she thought, but of 
the horrible events of the afternoon. Despite her nat- 
ural shame of what she had done, she had not fallen for- 
ever in her own estimation. The thing was so recent 
that the provocation was still plain to her, and the in- 
dignities to which his superior strength had forced her to 
submit put him outside the pale of a regret for her own 
act. It was true that his graver offence was subsequent 
to her own, but it was so heinous as to forfeit for him 
all right to her remorse. Even now she shuddered as 
she thought of what his brutality had caused her to un- 
dergo. She knew that she had done a thing which, 
in the eyes of the world, it would be difficult to justify. 
She did not wush to justify it. She was ashamed of it. 
She would be ashamed of it always; but in her own 
eyes she herself did not stand disgraced. Every instinct 
of her womanhood revolted against the blow, but a dis- 
passionate consideration of the facts themselves gave it 
its proper value in relation to the provocation. 

Still a very unpleasant weight hung over her. It was 
one thing to acquit herself — it was another to escape the 
consequences of her deed. It would be pretty news to 
go the round of the county that Miss Maxwell had laid 
her whip across the face of Mr. Brabant ! She did not 
fear that the story would emanate from him. Even af- 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


265 


ter what had occurred she gave him credit for sufficient 
gentlemanly feeling to keep back her name from any 
scandal that might arise out of the imprisonment of 
Tommy Peck. It was from the Pecks themselves that 
Gertrude dreaded a publicity of her shame in the affair ; 
but fortune favored her. 

At the post-office, in the course of a long conversa- 
tion, Gertrude gathered that by some miracle Tommy 
was evidently unaware of the blow which his tormentor 
had received at the hands of Miss Maxwell. Gertrude 
remembered the boy’s cowering attitude, and the sight 
of his sleeve before his eyes. Apparently he only knew 
about the struggle. Gertrude could have kissed him for 
his unobservance. But her relief did not end here. 
Mrs. Peck’s threats of the legal vengeance she was going 
to wreak upon Brabant had ended in air. She had now 
heard the “ facks ” of the case. Tommy, she was sorry 
to say, was not overtruthful, for which she blamed her- 
self, having been too much given to sparing the rod, and 
he had never said anything about that little affair of the 
poaching. Mr. Brabant had sent her a letter that morn- 
ing by special messenger, just before he left Fenton for 
the Continent, telling her the story from the beginning 
He had acted “ most fair and gentlemanly he was very 
sorry for the anxiety that had been caused to Mrs. Peck, 
and he explained how his intention of letting the boy 
out after a wholesome lesson had been frustrated by the 
unforeseen course of events of which the reader knows 
He hoped that the boy would be none the worse for 
what had happened. 

“And there was an ’andsome enclosure,” concluded 
Mrs. Peck ; “ so the matter’s ended amicable.” 


266 MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 

“ I am glad of that,’’ said Gertrude. She did not say 
how glad. 

“ And if,” said Mrs. Peck, casting a look of solemn 
warning at her delinquent offspring, “Tommy ever 
dares to poach again — and he’s been brought up differ- 
ent and had every advantage and ought to know bet- 
ter — he shall have his father’s strap — or Polly, either,” 
she added, including one of his sisters in her awful 
glance. “ I treat one like another, as well she knows !” 

Gertrude was not listening. Something else that 
Mrs. Peck had said had but at this moment filtered 
through the feeling of relief that was absorbing her at- 
tention. 

“Did you say he was going away — Mr. Brabant?” 

“ Gone, miss ; went up to town this morning by the 
seven - twenty from Lesborough. He’s going abroad to 
Monte something — Monte Cristo, where they ’ave the 
gambling. He is a strange gentleman. Miss Maxwell. 
The groom says he never said nothing about going 
away yesterday, and they heard him up all night, and 
in the morning he was packed and off. Seemed very 
odd, too, the groom told me. Ah, there’s funny blood 
there, miss, and nothing would ever surprise me as I 
heard about his grandfather’s grandchild. However, 
that’s neither here nor there, and he’s behaved very 
’andsome to me. What was I saying? Oh yes, he’s 
gone away ! I expect he wanted a bit of change after 
the night he had with his servant as had D. T. The 
groom told me Mr. Brabant had a dreadful time of it, 
and got knocked about a bit, too. There’s quite a mark 
on his face this morning.” 

Gertrude felt herself growing crimson. 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 267 

‘‘I ask you pardon,” said Mrs. Peck; ‘‘I oughtn’t to 
iiave spoken of delirious tremens to you.” 

She changed the conversation quickly — a matter of 
little difficulty to one so well versed in the news of the 
neighborhood. 

“Have you heard that Miss Kansom’s very ill and 
not likely to recover 

Gertrude had not heard. 

“ It’s pleurasy on the top of some sort of a decline,” 
said Mrs. Peck; “and I hear from the house - keeper, 
who knows it from the nurse, as the doctors say she’s so 
lowered herself with talnng drugs as there’s no chance 
of saving her life. They say she must have been in a 
bad way ever so long. And if you remember, she faint- 
ed away in church not so many Sundays back.” 

Gertrude turned to go. She was shocked by what 
Mrs. Peck had just told her. Everything connected 
with Miss Pansom was painful to her. She could not 
forget the scene in the meadow, when, in listening to 
the confession of the hysterical passion, she had fancied 
to her horror that she recognized in it a grotesque and 
distorted likeness of her own feelings for France. She 
had since succeeded in arguing away so horrible a fancy. 
She was sorry now to hear of Miss Pansom’s illness. 
She pitied the unhappy girl from her heart, but, justly 
or unjustly, she could not shake off the sense of repug- 
nance and shrinking which was caused to her by any 
reminder of her name or existence. 

It was, then, with mingled sensations of relief and re- 
gret that Gertrude left the post-office. Nothing could 
have had a more fortunate ultimate issue than the om- 
inous events of the preceding afternoon. In the allefvi- 


268 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


ation from further anxiety on the score of the possible 
publicity of what had taken place, Gertrude felt a more 
real repentance of her hasty act than she had yet expe- 
rienced. She was grateful to Brabant for having gone 
away. It was generous of him. She was softened in 
her judgments, and a pity for his unhappiness ousted 
her resentment. Something that he had said recurred 
to her: “You judge me by ordinary standards. You 
forget that my case is exceptional.” Did he speak of 
the terrible inheritance that was his birthright ? If so, 
what could be more melancholy than the consciousness 
of his irresponsibility ? He was not master of himself. 
Gertrude knew that. She had seen a dozen times the 
demon of his insanity looking at her out of his restless 
eyes. Tears filled her own as the unspeakable sadness 
of his ill-balanced life was made plain to her. After- 
wards, Gertrude accounted it a merciful kindness that 
had been vouchsafed to her when she remembered that 
her hatred of him had left her, and that in its place had 
come a Heaven-sent pity. At the time she only knew 
that, as she freely forgave him, and in imagination asked 
his own forgiveness of her, her heart felt lighter, and 
that the day seemed more bright. 

When she reached home, even the latest had finished 
breakfast — a movable feast at Eastwood, as Henry could 
have testified. Graham saw Gertrude as she entered 
the dining-room, and he followed her. A happier look 
was on her face than he remembered yet to have seen 
there. She was thoughtful and gentle and less abrupt 
than usual, and there could be no mistaking the content- 
ment of her expression. 

“ Gertrude, you don’t regret your promise ?” he said, 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


269 


in a low voice. It was his first reference to the events 
of the night before. While he rang for coffee, and 
helped her to cold partridge, or cut bread for her, he 
had been speaking unconcernedly of the plans of the 
day. 

For answer, Gertrude gave him her hand. A long 
look passed between them. 

“ God bless you,” he said, “ and help me to make you 
happy!” 

Soon after this the engagement was made public. It 
elicited the most hearty congratulations. Lady Julia 
kissed her niece with a warmth quite foreign to her 
normal embrace. She said it was a long time since she 
had been so glad about anything. 

Gertrude could not resist the mischief of saying : 

‘‘Even the Beckenham marriage pales beside this, 
doesn’t it. Aunt Julia ?” 

Lady St. Pancras was expansive and tearful. She 
was overjoyed, she said — truly overjoyed. The wish of 
her heart was to be accomplished. She pressed both 
Gertrude and Graham separately — though they might 
have been pressed simultaneously — to her ample bosom. 

Lord St. Pancras wrung his nephew’s hand. He was 
thankful, he said, to have lived to see this day. Gra- 
ham himself, accepting with his frank smile the felici- 
tations that were showered upon him, was in great 
spirits ; and Gertrude, in the midst of such rejoicings, 
could not but share the general gladness. As a step 
towards putting France forever out of her life, she 
went to the drawer that held his rose, and burned the 
dried and crackling fiower. Somehow, she did not 
watch the curling petals writhe in the fiames without a 


270 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


pang. The past must be blotted out. She would so 
school herself that places and things should lose their as- 
sociations for her. She meant to be happy, and Wilfrid 
must be happy, too. So the stream on which she had 
floated her wooden letter was henceforth just a stream ; 
the rose-tree of tender memory was just a rose-tree; the 
banjo was a noisy instrument, without much, music in 
its soul, and a certain simple little song of no great pre- 
tensions should be given to Henry to learn. There 
could be no quicker or more effectual way of robbing 
it of any dangerous charm. She stood by the hearth in 
her room, watching the glowing embers that still re- 
tained the likeness of a rose. She sighed, and stirred 
the Are impatiently. The flower fell to ashes. So 
closed, she thought, that chapter in her life over which 
was written the name of France. 

The closing of another chapter was the result, to her, 
of a great shock. From Monte Carlo there reached her 
the news of Brabant’s death. He was found in the 
gardens of the Casino shot through the head. To Ger- 
trude’s lasting horror, she could not persuade herself 
that the tragic deed was due, as the papers suggested, to 
his losses at the tables. As if to add a completeness to 
the tragedy of his story. Miss Ransom’s death followed 
his at an interval of a few days. 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 


Time moved on. 

The preparations for Gertrude’s wedding were in full 
swing. Lady Julia and her niec6 travelled backward 
and forward between Eastwood and London many times 
during the winter days. The house was empty of visit- 
ors now. Wilfrid Graham came down often. 

Gertrude told him the whole story of Brabant. She 
was, indeed, too much horrified by his death to keep 
what she knew to herself. From her heart she was 
thankful that her softer thoughts of him had come to 
her before he died. She wished that he could have 
known that she bore him no resentment for his treat- 
ment of her in the disused graveyard ; that though she 
had said that she could never forgive him, she had for- 
given him, and she wished that he might know that, 
robbed by death of all that had repelled her, she re- 
membered him only as having unwisely loved. She 
thought of him often, and, rightly or wrongly, she 
prayed for his soul. 

Graham reminded her how she had defended him once 
when all were against him. 

It was only because I wanted to be just,” she said. ‘‘ I 
am thankful for it — but it was not kindness then. I had 
not at that time made allowances. He was not responsi- 
ble for himself. Wilfrid, I can hear him now asking me if 
I could not forgive him, and I told him that I could not. 
Oh, what would I not give to know that he forgave me !” 


272 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


Graham saw in the suicide at Monte Carlo a feature 
which he did not point out to Gertrude. 

“ He might have done it at home,’’ he said to himself. 
“ Good God, if he had not thought of her, he might 
have shot himself that night !” 

To Gertrude he dwelt on the fact that at Monte Carlo 
Brabant had staked recklessly and lost heavily. But he 
himself was not deceived. 

December came to an end. The wedding was to be 
in February. Among Gertrude’s letters of congratula- 
tions was one from Lady Beckenham. 

“ Things are not much better here,” wrote the poor 
little wife ; “ so, Gertrude dear, you must forgive me if 
I say I hope you have chosen for yourself.” 

“Yes,” Gertrude wrote back; ‘‘I have chosen for 
myself. You must meet Wilfrid before very long. I 
shall have the best husband in England, Kate ; and if I 
am not happy, -the fault will be my own.” 

“ I wonder what she means by that,” said Lady 
Beckenham to herself. 

To Gertrude’s great relief, Mrs. Woodford was winter- 
ing abroad, so the Manor was closed, and Gertrude heard 
nothing there to disturb her. Happy as she was in her 
engagement with Graham, she lived in continual dread 
of anything arising to remind her of the past. She 
hoped that it was buried, but she knew herself to be 
human. She was startled one day to realize how remote 
an association of ideas could unearth it from the tomb 
to which she had consigned it. Among the deaths she 
read that of a Mrs. Essex, in Grosvenor Place. What 
did she know of a Mrs. Essex in Grosvenor Place? 
Who had said, “BrufE — Broughton Essex, you know, 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


273 


his name was, and Bruff evolved itself for short V’ She 
remembered at once. The very words I have quoted 
came, as they had been spoken, from some chamber in 
her brain, where, with other sacred relics of memory, 
they had been stored. This must be the mother of the 
man who died on the ranch — the .mother of France’s 
friend. Oh, France — 

To atone for the involuntary lapse of her allegiance to 
Graham, she wrote him a long and affectionate letter, 
such as he liked to receive froyn her. 

Another month went by. A fortnight more would 
see her his wife. It was about this time that, one day, 
Gertrude, looking at two pictures in the dining-room — 
the first, the portrait of a girl ; the second, that of 
Michael Maxwell — suddenly remembered a conversation 
which had once taken place concerning them. Gertrude 
and Lady St. Pancras had between them related a short 
history, and Graham, leaving facts, had proposed, by a 
rearrangement of circumstances, an amendment, which 
would have been more poetically just, and also more 
complete. The portrait of Michael Maxwell resembled 
Brabant, as we know. In the situation of the girl, 
Gertrude saw an analogy to her own, and with a thrill 
of wonder she realized that her story had worked itself 
out closely up to a certain point on the lines of Gra- 
ham’s laughing suggestion. What if this point were 
passed ! 

Once married to Graham, she told herself, she would 
be safe, and a very fever of impatience began to con- 
sume her — impatience for the day to come which should 
see the knot tied between them, and make retraction 
under any circumstances impossible. She had now a 
18 


274 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


fixed dread of meeting France before her wedding. 
After that, she thought, if she should see him, though 
the risk would be greater, so in proportion would her 
strength be greater. Graham had as much of her heart 
as she could give him, and at all cost she would make 
him happy. It was curious how firm a hold this fear 
got of her. She was uncertain of herself. At times 
she would look at Graham’s photograph and tell herself 
how fortunate she was to be beloved of him. She was 
proud of his good looks, of his popularity, of his very 
inches — of everything, in short, that went to make him 
what he was. At others, a memory of France would 
force the knowledge upon her that she could not take 
back that which she had once given. At such moments 
she would almost regret her promise, though it had been 
honestly made, and she would deplore having deceived 
herself into a belief that she had forgotten, or could ever 
forget, him. 

Lady Julia knew nothing of all this. She only saw 
in Gertrude a lucky girl who, at this moment, was the 
envy of most other young women of Graham’s acquaint- 
ance. She had, indeed, nearly forgotten the Woodford 
affair, and only thought of it — if indeed she ever thought 
of it at all — to congratulate herself that she had put a 
stop to it in time. Gertrude, it was plain, had consoled 
herself easily ; Lady Julia’s own arguments, which we 
remember, had proved themselves sound, and all was 
going well. 

Knutsford had written offering his congratulations. 
Of young Wakefield, Gertrude had lost sight, and of her 
other lovers one was married, one was dead, another (if 
I may include him) had ridden away, and little Har- 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


275 


wood, completing the definite list of those who had 
meant matrimony, was bravely to the fore with his 
felicitations. 

He was awfully glad,^he told Gertrude, awfully glad. 
Graham was a fine chap, and he was worthy of her, as 
he himself had never been. It was generous of her to 
have forgiven his presumption. Oh yes, it was ! Well, 
all luck to her, and all happiness — to her and to the 
fortunate Graham ! 

“ Do you know what I thought once he said. 

‘‘ How can I possibly know what you thought once 
said Gertrude, with a grave smile. 

“You won’t mind! — I thought somehow it would 
eventually be Woodford. You remember Woodford? 
It was very ridiculous, of course.” 

“ Yes, it was very ridiculous,” said Gertrude. 

Something in her manner prevented him from ever 
again alluding to what he had “ thought once.” 

The county ball was approaching. Gertrude would 
fain have excused herself from going to it. She had 
not forgotten the tragedy of Brabant’s life and death, 
and she was in no mood for dancing; but Lady Julia, 
near as it was to the time of her niece’s wedding, 
had filled her house for the ball. It was one of the 
functions of the year, and Lady Julia, as a patroness 
and so on, felt it incumbent on her to be present. Ger- 
trude pleaded the nearness of her marriage. Wilfrid 
himself was coming down, said Lady Julia. Ger- 
trude’s objections were overruled, and she said that she 
would go. 

“ Of course,” said Lady Julia, shortly. 

The day arrived. Graham was to arrive in the after- 


276 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


noon, and Gertrude drove to meet him. By some mis- 
calculation she found that the train had been in fully 
ten minutes when she reached Parkhurst. It happened, 
however, that Wilfrid Graham had not come by it. A 
telegram, of which a duplicate had been sent to East- 
wood, awaited her at the station. He had missed his 
train. He would come down later, dress at the Sceptre, 
and thence go on to the ball. 

Gertrude gave an exclamation of disappointment, and 
turned the horses’ heads in the direction of home. Then 
it occurred to her that it would be well to leave a mes- 
sage at the hotel that a room might be ready for him. 
So she called there on her way. 

There had evidently been the arrival of a guest at the 
Sceptre just before she drew up. Some luggage lay in 
the hall. From her high seat she could see a portman- 
teau, and there remained to her, after giving her direc- 
tions, the impression of it, and of the letters ‘‘ F. W.,” 
which were painted upon it, and which were presum- 
ably the initials of its owner. 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

Gertrude drove away. 

Those two letters, whatever they might signify, seemed 
to have burned themselves into her brain. She felt as a 
man who has gazed at the sun, and for a time can see 
only crimson circles — or, suiting the case more aptly — 
as one who has looked at the words of a cunningly de- 
vised advertisement till he sees somebody’s soap written 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 277 

in dazzling characters upon the wall, the ceiling, or blank 
sheet of paper. 

Gertrude saw “ F. W.” between her and the sky. She 
saw the letters on the Town Hall, where all was bustle 
in preparation for the ball. She saw them on the roll 
of crimson cloth that lay on a step ready to be laid 
down. She remembered little of the drive back to East- 
wood. She saw “ F. W.” on the hall door. She saw 
‘‘ F. W.” on every picture in the drawing-room when she 
joined her aunt and the guests at tea-time. She was si- 
lent, absent. She ate nothing, and she put down her cup 
half full. She could scarcely have told what ailed her. 
Her hands were cold. She held them to the fire. A 
color that looked hectic showed itself in her cheeks. 
When she rose she caught sight of her eyes in a mirror. 
They seemed to have absorbed something of the glow 
of the blazing flames. 

Lady Julia was in high good-humor. Had she not 
reason ? Her plans were being carried out so satisfac- 
torily. She presented a different face from that of the 
Lady J ulia who a few months back had held herself con- 
science-striken during a thunder-storm of some severity. 

Gertrude’s restlessness increased. It had no definite 
cause, but it was very real, and she could not argue it 
away. She talked at dinner, but in a spasmodic way 
that showed that her heart was not in the conversation. 
She ate little. She asked for a tumbler and water and 
she drank thirstily. 

The ladies left the table early. Lady Julia stayed 
behind in the hall to give some directions as to the 
carriages and hurried up to dress for the ball. The 
door of Gertrude’s room was open, and Lady Julia 


278 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


glanced in as she passed. Something in the attitude of 
her niece struck her. Gertrude, standing indolently at 
the hearth, looked into the fire. She was still wearing 
a black and sombre gown, in which she had appeared at 
dinner. The room was light with the many candles 
which the maid had lit. Lady Julia paused, and went 
back to the door. 

“ Come, Gertrude,” she said ; “ you must make haste ; 
you will keep us waiting.” 

Miss Maxwell shook her head. 

“ I sha’n’t keep you waiting, Aunt Julia,” she said. 

“ Well then, dear, ring for Eoberts and get ready.” 

Gertrude did not stir. She was still looking into the 
fire. 

“ Do you hear ?” said Lady Julia, a little impatiently. 
“ If you do, I wish you would answer one.” 

“ The fact is. Aunt Julia,” said Gertrude, “ I don’t 
want to go to-night.” 

Lady Julia advanced a few steps into the room. She 
saw Gertrude’s ball - dress lying on the bed. She saw 
the fiowers that had been sent up from the hot-house. 
She looked in surprise at the dark-robed figure by the 
hearth. 

“ Aren’t you well ?” she said, at last. 

It isn’t that,” said Gertrude ; I am quite well. I 
would rather not go, that is all.” 

‘‘But why?” said her aunt, blankly; “why, in the 
name of wonder ?” 

Gertrude realized that she had no definite reason. 

“ I would rather not,” she said. “ Why should I go ? 
I am to be married in a week. Why not let me stay 
quiet these last few days ?” 


MISS MAXWELL’^ AFFECTIONS- 


279 


“ My dear child, what nonsense — what ridiculous non- 
sense ! What has your marrying to do with it ? There, 
I have rung your bell. You must begin to dress at 
once. Why, of course you must come ! Think of Wil- 
frid, who is coming down on purpose !” 

“I am thinking of Wilfrid,” said Gertrude, in a curi- 
ous tone. Lady J ulia remembered it afterwards, as, in- 
deed, she remembered the whole of this incident. “ You 
wish me to go,^unt Julia?” 

“ JSTot only that,” said Lady Julia, with a smile, “ I in- 
sist upon it !” 

“ Very well,” said Gertrude ; “ I will go.” 

Half an hour or so later the carriages were at the 
door. The men were hanging about the hall, and the 
girls appeared one by one. Henry, who was back at 
Eastwood, as each vision appeared upon the staircase, 
made remarks in an undertone to a friend whom he had 
brought down for the ball. The friend chuckled a 
good deal, so the remarks were presumably funny. 

Lady Julia made her appearance presently — hand- 
some, bejewelled, and decolletee. 

Gertrude came down slowly, buttoning her gloves. 
Her white draperies trailed on the stairs. Henry made 
no comments at her expense. Her beauty struck him 
as it had never struck him before. 

She was very silent during the drive. Her brother 
wondered what ailed her. In the darkness he could 
see her face and head outlined against the window. But 
he knew Gertrude too well to question her about her 
mood. Lights flashed along the road. The Yicarage 
girls rubbed the rattling glass of the fly from the King’s 
Arms and peered forth as the Eastwood carriages over- 


280 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


took and rolled by their humble conveyance. It was 
in vain that they urged their Jehu forward that they 
might attach themselves to Lady Julia and her party. 
When they reached the line they found themselves di- 
vided from them by a long string of vehicles. 

A clock struck the half-hour after ten as the East- 
wood people stepped out onto the crimson cloth. The 
Town Hall was as bright as light and flowers and palms 
could make it. A small crowd stood at each side of 
the door, and made comments as the guests flled up 
from their carriages into the building. Gertrude heard 
her name. 

Lady Julia’s silks swept by with an imposing rustle. 
Gertrude ascended the stairs languidly, looking about 
her with eyes that saw everything and noted nothing. 
Afterwards she had no very clear impression of the 
early part of the evening. Familiar faces greeted her 
at every step to the cloak-room. She exchanged words 
with her friends, and mechanically she looked into the 
glass, as others looked, to see that her hair had not been 
ruffled during the drive. She was dimly conscious of 
the absent expression her features wore as she followed 
her aunt to the ball-room. 

With kaleidoscopic eflect people and colors moved 
before her. Here and there a hunt coat made a spot of 
pink. A diamond flashed on a woman’s neck. The 
gold of a bangle caught the light and threw out its 
gleam of yellow. The soft tints of girls’ dresses wove 
themselves into a patternless patchwork that was always 
forming and never formed. It might have been Ger- 
trude’s fancy that in the swaying sea of faces she caught 
a momentary glimpse of one that made her heart to leap. 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 381 

She felt dazed — she could not tell how much that was 
going on about her was real, and how much had its 
place only in her heated imagination. She was con- 
scious of being surrounded by many people, of giving 
or refusing dances, but she could not have told to whom 
they were granted, and to whom denied. While she 
was speaking to the men who had gathered round her, 
she looked about the room nervously and with eyes rest- 
less, had she known it, as those of Brabant. The floor 
was vibrating with the measure of the dancers’ feet, and 
the music seemed to pulse with her blood. 

Henry was watching his sister. When an opportu- 
nity occurred, he approached her. 

“ Who are you looking for ?” he said, with more of 
suddenness than grammar. 

Gertrude started. 

“ I ? Whom have I to look for ? It is early still. 
I have been calculating, and I And that Wilfrid can’t be 
here much before twelve.” 

“ I wasn’t thinking of Wilfrid,” said Henry. 

“ Whom else ?” said Gertrude, nervously. 

“I have lived too much apart from you to know,” 
said Henry. 

Involuntarily Gertrude’s eyes wandered away from 
him. He saw her scanning the moving faces. 

“You look,” said Henry, slowly, “ as if you expected 
to see a ghost, and wished to see one, and yet were 
afraid. Has your past any ghosts, Gertrude ?” 

His sister laughed oddly. 

“ Hone,” she said, “ none. Hor if it had should I try 
to see. them.” 

Tor her thoughts went suddenly to Brabant. 


282 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


‘‘Then dance, dear, and look happy. You have 
everything you can possibly wish for.” 

“Yes, I have everything I can wish for. I ought to 
look happy, oughtn’t I ? Wilfrid is the best and the 
dearest fellow in the world. I am to be married to him 
in a week. Oh, why did he miss his train ? I wish he 
was here. I want him here. That is what is the mat- 
ter with me, I think.” 

“Well, he will turn up before very long,” said Hen- 
ry, and he moved away. 

Had he stayed, he would have seen his sister give a 
sudden gesture. He would have seen the color leave 
her face and a frozen look come over her lips. He 
might have gathered that in very truth she saw a 
spectre. 

It was with a great effort that Gertrude recovered 
herself. That which she had dreaded had occurred, and 
she had met France Woodford again. 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 

“ I FOUND him at the Sceptre,” Gertrude heard little 
Harwood saying to her, but his voice sounded very dis- 
tant, and she could not see the speaker for the mist that 
had come before her eyes. “ Fancy, the Sceptre, when 
half the houses about here would have been open to 
him ! — and so I carried him off to Harwood with me, 
you bet, and I made him come here to-night.” 

Gertrude was conscious of putting out her hand. 

“ And the Manor is closed, isn’t it ?” she said, in as 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


283 


steady a voice as she could command. “ Mrs. Wood- 
ford is still away 

To her great relief, Harwood chattered on, and Ger- 
trude looked at him as if her life depended upon miss- 
ing one of his trifling utterances. All the time she was 
conscious that Woodford’s eyes were upon her own. 
She felt their steadfast scrutiny as a thing tangible. 
W ith the first sound of his voice in greeting, her pulses 
had leaped. After a time the strain became unendur- 
able, and she was forced to look at him. He was dittle 
changed. Every memory that she had hoped slept 
awoke. 

“You haven’t forgotten me?” he was saying. “You 
will give me a dance. Miss Maxwell ?” 

“ Yes, I must give you a dance,” Gertrude answered, 
vaguely; “I must give you a dance for — the sake of 
old times. But you are late. I am afraid I have only 
a choice of one to offer you.” 

France moved nearer to her. Harwood was speaking 
to some one else. 

“The last was the first I danced,” Woodford said, in 
a low voice, “and I had to dance that. I had been 
watching the door since I amved till then.” 

“Watching the door?” said Gertrude, without any 
very clear notion of what she was saying. 

“ Because I knew your card would fill up at once — 
and by dancing that one dance I missed what I had 
waited for.” 

Gertrude looked at him in a bewildered way. He 
met her eyes steadily, and looked into them deeply. 
There was a pause. Harwood turned from his friend. 

“ And am I not to have a dance ?” he said. 


284 


MISS MAXNVELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


“I am afraid not,” said Gertrude; “you are so late. 
I am very sorry.” 

Simultaneously the two men noted upon Gertrude’s 
card three blank spaces, besides that which France was 
about to fill up with his own name. 

“ But those,” said Harwood — “those. You can give 
me one — unless — oh yes, I know. All right. I under- 
stand.” 

France looked from one to the other, and Gertrude 
took back her card in silence. 

Lady Julia, in happy unconsciousness of any danger- 
ous presence at the ball, moved about importantly among 
the elect. More than once Gertrude looked in her di- 
rection and hesitated. Even now it might be well to 
leave Parkhurst. But he or she who hesitates is lost, 
and Gertrude hesitated. The minutes passed. Ger- 
trude could not have told how they were spent until 
the hands of the clock pointed to a quarter to twelve. 
Then a waltz was coming to an end, and the next was 
the dance she had promised to France. Again she 
looked desperately at the spot where her aunt had been 
standing. The doors of the supper -room had been 
thrown open. She saw Lady Julia disappearing through 
them on the arm of a county magnate. Wilfrid had 
not arrived. She tried to persuade herself that circum- 
stances were against her. 

“ I am frightened,” she was saying to herself ; “lam 
frightened.” 

When the interval was over, France lost no time in 
coming to find her. 

“ Shall we dance ?” 

“Yes,” said Gertrude; “yes.” 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


285 


The opening of the supper-room had somewhat eased 
tha ball-room. Gertrude and France took a few steps 
upon a clear floor. They moved as one person. Quite 
suddenly they exchanged glances. The air of the dance 
had declared itself. 

“ Brufl’s ranch song,” said France, below his breath. 

‘‘ I did not know it had been set as a waltz,” Gertrude 
tried to say, but her voice failed her. 

^ France bent to catch the words. 

“ What ? I can’t hear you !” he said. 

Ever so slightly he tightened his hold of her hand. 
The movement may have been unconscious. His face 
as he danced was close to hers. She began to tremble 
so violently that he stopped and led her quickly out of 
the ball-room and on to the veranda above the porch. 
The place, which happened to be empty, had been roofed 
in, and was hung with draperies. She lay back in the 
chair to which he led her. A weakness which disabled 
her caused her eyes to close. When she opened them 
he was bending anxiously above her. Then these two 
looked at each other for a long time in silence, and pres- 
ently Gertrude realized that France was holding her 
hand. She tried to draw it away, but he gently 
thwarted her, and took it more closely into his own. 
The warmth of his palm seemed to give her life. Again 
he looked deeply into her eyes; she allowed hers to 
meet his steadily. A few moments passed thus, and then 
with sudden misgiving, Gertrude knew what she had 
done. She thought of Wilfrid, and she shrank back. 
He followed her movement, bending more forward. 

“ Oh,” said Gertrude, breathlessly; “you mustn’t hold 
my hand ! You — you must forget all this. We must 


286 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


both forget it. I am ashamed. You must go, please ; 
you must go — indeed you must! I must be mad, I 
think, or wicked. Oh, I am wicked. You must go 

“You won’t send me away — again?” whispered 
France. “I have come thousands of miles to see you. 
You won’t send me away — you can’t send me away af 
you did before — ” 

“ As I did before ?” said Gertrude. Each word came 
separately from her lips. “As I did before ? — when ? 
What do you mean ?” 

“Ah, what matter now ?” said France. “ What does 
anything matter now ? Oh, you owe me some reparation 
for my months of banishment 1” 

“ Your months of banishment?” said Gertrude. 

She put her hand to her forehead, and pushed back 
her hair. 

“ It seemed cruel — then,” said France. 

Gertrude raised herself suddenly. 

“ What seemed cruel ?” she asked. 

France smiled. 

“ I see it differently now,” he said, gently. “ I know 
that Lady Julia was right, and that though you might 
have deceived yourself into thinking it possible to marry 
a poor man — ” 

Gertrude interrupted him. Her eyes were wide and 
tragic. 

“ I don’t understand a word you are saying,” she said, 
with amazement. “ I don’t know whether I am dream- 
ing or not. I don’t know what you are talking about. 
You speak of banishment ! You say I sent you away ! 
I — If Do you know yourself what you are saying ?” 

It was his turn for bewilderment. 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


287 


What don’t you understand ?” he asked. 

He had risen to his feet, and now Gertrude rose also. 
They faced each other. The music of the dance came 
to them faintly. 

‘‘I understand nothing,” said Gertrude. “You say I 
sent you away.” 

“Did you not?” said France, quickly. “It is true that 
Lady Julia was spokeswoman, but she had your author- 
ity for what she said — or at least your concurrence in it.” 

Gertrude gave a gesture indicative of her hopeless in- 
ability to understand. 

“You or I are dreaming,” she said, with an attempt 
at a smile. “Are you, then, at all ? Will you tell me 
whether you are France Woodford, and whether you are 
speaking to me, Gertrude Maxwell ? Let us be sure of 
our identity, at least.” 

“ But what is there that you don’t understand ?” said 
France again. “ Isn’t it all simple enough ? My God ! 
I don’t forget ! Did not Lady Julia write to me and 
arrange an interview ? Did she not then tell me plainly 
that if I was thinking of asking you to marry me, it 
was out of the question ? Did she not tell me that she 
had talked the matter over with you — that it was true 
that you liked me, but that you were not prepared to 
accept such a lot as it would have been in my power to 
offer you ? Did she not say that if I stayed on here it 
would only cause a great deal of unhappiness to you ? 
Ah, you were selfish! You thought only of yourself.” 

Gertrude had been pale before. How, as she listened, 
an indescribable whiteness came over her face. More 
than once she tried to speak. When at last any words 
came from her lips they were scarcely audible. 


288 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


“Aunt Julia told you a lie !” 

“Whatr 

“ I haven’t heard a word of all this till now.” 

“ Do you mean that you did not know why I went ? 
— that she had not told you? — that you had not told 
her ? Gertrude, Gertrude ! is it I that am dreaming ?” 

“ We are both awake,” said Gertrude. “We are both 
awake at last ! Oh ! did you believe it ? Did you be- 
lieve it ? Could you believe it — of me ? Oh ! you 
should have known me better than to have thought that 
of me !” 

Tears sprang to her eyes. 

“ If you had asked me to marry you and live in a 
hovel, I would have married you.” 

He was holding her hand once more. 

“ That Aunt Julia should have dared ?” she said, pres- 
ently; “that she should have dared to speak for me — 
to use my name ! Are you certain there is no mistake 
— are you certain ? It was horrible — it was heinous — ” 

She stopped, realizing the complete impotence of 
words to express her indignation and her righteous 
anger. 

“ It was damnable !” said France, shortly ; “ it was dis- 
honorable !” 

They stood still for a few moments. All thought of 
Wilfrid had been swept from Gertrude’s mind by the 
stupendous import of the revelation that had been made 
to her. The dance had come to an end. Voices sounded 
in the corridors, but no one came* to disturb the two be- 
ings who faced each other and a crisis in their lives. 

“ If you did not know this,” said France, presently, 
“what must you have thought of my going? Do you 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


289 


know that I went to Eastwood that night — the night, I 
mean, of the day on which I lunched with you ? I went 
just to be near you, and I saw you at your window — ” 

“ The rose !” said Gertrude, suddenly. “ The rose I 
gave you! You returned it to me — oh, you didn’t 
care !” 

“ Oh,” said France, “ I hunted for that flower high 
and low. I lost it that night.” 

“ But you put it in my book,” said Gertrude ; “ you 
put it in my book !” 

A look of enlightenment came over his face. 

“ That accounts for it, then. I remember picking up 
the rose, which I substituted for the one I took. I must 
have dropped my own.” 

Gertrude was silent. How simple was the true ex- 
planation of that which had seemed capable of but one 
dire interpretation. 

The mention of the rose recalled to Gertrude its 
recent destruction, and this, in turn, reminded her of — 
Wilfrid. Woodford saw the appalled expression of her 
eyes. 

“ France,” she said, in a tone of horror, ‘‘ an awful 
thing has happened to us both.” 

“Oh, what does it all matter now?” said Woodford 
again; “we can defy Lady Julia. It is no longer a 
hovel that I have to offer you. We spoke of Bruff just 
now — poor Bruff ! — it is indirectly through him that I 
find myself in a position to ask you to marry me. Mrs. 
Essex died the other day, and to my amazement I found 
she had left me everything. I have travelled day and 
night to come to you.” 

Gertrude made no sign of surprise or joy. 

19 


290 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


“ It is too late,” she said. “ Oh ! how can I tell you ? 
France, you went away. You left me. You said noth- 
ing to let me know that you cared for me. I am en- 
gaged to some one else. I am to be married in a 
week.” 

The silence that ensued seemed to Gertrude as if it 
would never end. France and she looked each in the 
other’s face. He moved nearer to her. 

‘‘ But you love me,” he said. 

She did not speak. 

“ You love me !” he said again ; “ you love me — ^me !” 

“ I have always loved you,” she said, at last. 


% 


CHAPTER XXXVIL 

The situation was desperate, but so also was Gertrude. 
She viewed her case rapidly, and the case of France — 
the case even of Wilfrid ; then, with the resolution of 
which she was capable, she made up her mind. Her 
purpose was steadfast. 

Graham, having eaten a hasty meal at the Sceptre 
and made his way to the Town Hall, found Gertrude 
watching for him. 

For a moment her heart misgave her as she saw the 
smile of greeting which came over his face as he saw 
her, and hurried up the stairs. 

“Oh, Gertrude, how much of this night I have 
, missed !” he said. “ The rest of your programme is for 
me, I hope. It was very rough luck missing the train. 
However, here I am at last. How, let me begin to en- 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


291 


joy myself. The next is mine, isn’t it ? — and the next, 
and the next, and the next 

He stopped. Gertrude was looking at him through 
tears. He saw by this and a sudden catching of her 
breath that something was amiss. France had stepped 
back, and he was looking at Graham curiously. 

“ Are you ill, Gertrude ?” 

“ Ho ; but I want you to take me home at once. I 
have something to say to you.” 

“ But Lady Julia — ” began Wilfrid. 

“Hever mind Aunt Julia,” said Gertrude. “ I can’t 
see her yet. I want to go, Wilfrid. I must go. Don’t 
you see I am in earnest? You must take me at once, 
and Aunt Julia can follow when she likes. I shall be 
ready for her. I am going to get my cloak. Send for 
a carriage. It can come back. I am not mad, Wilfrid. 
Oh, I will tell you, but I cannot here — ^you will know 
soon enough ! Don’t look at me as if I had lost my 
senses. I want to go, Wilfrid, at once — at once — at 
once.” 

Graham obeyed her mechanically. He saw her hurry 
into the cloak-room past the people who were coming 
from the ball-room. The fly which had brought him 
from the Sceptre was still at the door. The night was 
young, and the Eastwood carriages would not be round 
for another two hours. He saw Gertrude, like Cinder- 
ella, running down the stairs. He followed her into 
the vehicle, having told the coachman to drive to East- 
wood. Gertrude, with chattering teeth, lay back in her 
corner. 

“ You are ill, Gertrude. You must be ill.” 

She shook her head. 


292 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


He still thought that she was ill. He put his hand , 
upon her forehead gently. Her temples were hot and 
throbbing, as he had expected. 

“Dear Gertrude,” he said, “your head is aching. It 
will be better presently. Poor old Gertrude, did you 
wait to see me? You ought to have left sooner. Lean 
against' my shoulder — there, like that. Is that comfort- 
able ? I wish I could do anything for you. Is my hand 
cool — does it relieve you ?” 

His words, his tone, his thought for her were as stabs. 
She burst into a paroxysm of weeping. She bowed her 
head over his hand and kissed it. She held it convul- 
sively to her. Her tears fell upon it. 

“My poor Gertrude!” he whispered, “my darling 
Gertrude!” 

Every word that he said made it harder for her to tell 
him. What better could she desire than the love of this 
man? 

“You ought to be in bed,” he said, gently. “They 
oughtn’t to have let you come to this ball.” 

It was then first that Gertrude found her voice. 

“ I didn’t want to come,” she said, between her sobs. 
“I didn’t want to come. Aunt Julia can tell you. I 
didn’t want to come. I knew something would happen. 

I knew it. I can’t explain, but I did know, and I didn’t 
want to be tempted. Oh, Wilfrid! Wilfrid! Wilfrid! 
how unhappy lam! I am not ill, as you think. I am 
not ill. Don’t you see that it isn’t that ?” 

“What is it then?” said Graham. He spoke very 
quietly. / 

“ How shall I tell you ?” said Gertrude, brokenly. She 
buried her face in her hands, and she did not see his 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


293 


look of apprehension deepen to one of certain knowl- 
edge. 

There was a long pause before either spoke. Then 
Wilfrid said, in a low voice : 

“ Has he come back, Gertrude V’ 

She did not answer immediately, but shrank into the 
deeper shadow of her corner of the carriage. Wilfrid 
said nothing further just then. He looked out of the 
window. The night was frosty. White hedges and 
white trees and white fields were being passed. The 
horse’s hoofs made a sharp sound upon the hard road. 

“ What do you want me to do he said, at last. “He 
has come late in the day, Gertrude. It is nearly the 
eleventh hour.” 

Still Gertrude did not answer. 

“ So you have never cared for me,” Wilfrid said, pres- 
ently — “ not even in these last weeks, when I have been 
thinking that you were beginning to be fond of me. I 
came across a line, an Indian proverb, to-night, in a 
book I was reading in the train — ‘ I am dying for you, 
and you are dying for another.’ ” 

The window fell, and he leaned across her and put it 
up. She caught his hand. 

“ It is better to tell you, isn’t it,” she said, struggling 
to master her voice. “ I — I told you in the beginning 
that I wanted to be honest with you. You won’t be- 
lieve now that I care for you. How can I expect you 
to believe it ? I am torn in two directions. Oh, try to 
understand ! I told you everything when you first asked 
me to marry you. I told you I cared for some one else. 
I told you I was unhappy. I told you he did not care 
for me — he had gone away. But I didn’t know what I 


294 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


know now. He did care for me, and Aunt Julia sent 
him away — ” 

She broke off with a sob. She was still holding Wil- 
frid’s hand. She could not trust herself to look at him 
and see how great a change had come over the face that 
was by nature merry and boyish. 

“ Aunt Julia sent him away because he was poor, and 
she told him the lie that has caused all this misery. 
She dared to say that I wished him to go — I, who would 
have gone through anything for him.” 

Wilfrid pressed gently the hands that held his hand. 

“ My poor Gertrude !” 

“You can speak kindly to me ! Oh, Wilfrid !” 

It was some time after this before she could sufficient- 
ly control herself to tell him the rest of the story. She 
did not look at him, but she knew that he winced, and 
her heart bled for him. 

“ What do you wish of me ?” he said, in the end. 

“ Wilfrid, as God hears me, I care for you. I would 
have been a faithful wife to you, and I would have loved 
you. I love you now — if it be possible to love two — 
but he was first. Oh, my dear, dear Wilfrid, forgive me! 
I didn’t want to go to-night. I had a presentiment that 
I should meet him. Of course, I saw those letters on 
the luggage, but I had felt what I mean before tljat. I 
have been frightened. Oh, how can I explain ? I have 
dreaded meeting him again, because 1 knew it would 
unsettle me, and then I did not know what I know 
now.” 

“You want me to give you your freedom, Gertrude? 
You are free.” 

The words brought her no joy. 


MISS MAXWELL’S AFFECTIONS. 


295 


I think I will marry neither of you,” she said, hope- 
lessly. 

And break three hearts, as you would do if you were 
in a book or a play ?” He made an attempt at a laugh. 
There were tears in his eyes. “ Ho, dear ; be thankful 
that he came back in time. Next week he would have 
been too late. Next week, oh, my God ! Gertrude, next 
week !” 

“Wilfrid! Wilfrid!” cried Gertrude. She threw her 
arms round his neck. She held her face against his. 
Their tears were mingled. 

“ I can’t let you go,” she said ; “ I can’t let you go. 
Perhaps now I love you best. How do I know ?” 

But the cab took Wilfrid back to the Sceptre, and 
Gertrude sat up for Lady Julia. 




THE END. 






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(illustrated) 


60 

St. Katherine’s by the Tower (illus- 


trated) 


60 

BESANT & RICE 

• 


Golden Butterfly 


40 

When the Ship Comes Home.32mo 

25 

’Twas in Trafalgar’s Bay 

32mo 

20 

Sweet Nelly 


10 

Shepherds All and Maidens Fair. 



32mo 

25 

The Chaplain of the Fleet . . . 


20 

By Celia’s Arbor (illustrated). .8vo 

50 

Ihe Captain’s Room 


10 

So They Were Married (ill’d). 

.4to 

20 

W. CLARK RUSSELL. 


Auld Lang Syne 


10 

A sailor’s Sweetheart 


15 

A Sea Queen 


20 

A Strange Voyage 


20 

A Book lor the Hammock. . . 


20 

Wreck of the “Grosvenor”. 

. .8vo 

30 

An Ocean Free-I.ance 


20 

An Ocean Tragedy 


50 

The “ Lady Maud ” (illustrated) .4to 

20 

Marooned 


25 

My Danish Sweetheart (ilPd) 

..8vo 

60 

My Shipmate Louise 


60 

My Watch Below 


20 

In the Middle Watch 

12rao 

25 

Little Loo 


20 

On the Fo’k’sle Head 


15 

Voyage to the Cape 

12mo 

25 

Round the Galley Fire 


15 

The Golden Hope 


20 

Jack’s Courtship 


25 

John Holdsworth, Chief Mate..4to 

20 

The Frozen Pirate (illustrated) .4to 

25 

THOMAS HARDY 



A Group of Noble Dames 

(illus- 


trated) 


76 

Romantic Adventures of a 

Milk- 


.Maid 


10 

The Woodlanders . . 

. . . 4to 

20 

Fellow-Townsmen 

32mo 

20 

A Laodicean (illustrated) . . . , 


20 

Wessex Tales 


30 


PuBLisHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, New York. 

r* Any of the, above works sent by mail, postage prepaid, to antj part of the United States, Canada, or Mexico, 

on receipt of the price. 



The Best for Family Reading. 

N O publishing house has yet succeeded in ministering, as the Harpers do, through their 
icals, to old and young, men and women seekers for current news graphically 
scholars, travellers, and artists, and children of all ages. — Obsei'ver, N. Y. 


Harper’s Magazine. 

Issued Monthly, oo Year, 

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Issued Weekly, oo a Year, 

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Issued Weekly, oo a Year. 

Harper’s Young People. 

Issued Weekly, $2 00 a Year. 1 


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— N. Y. Journal of Commerce. 

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m its essential characteristics, is 
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Evening Journal. 1 

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both sexes . — Boston Journal. 


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Published by HARPER & BROTHERS, New York. 


57® ‘♦iS ^ 













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